


It's That Time of the Year

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blowjobs, Christmas, Humor, M/M, Rimming, Romantic Comedy, Seasonal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-02 07:48:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin is a personal shopper at a high-end department store. He's tasked with helping Arthur, who's helpless when it comes to gift ideas for his demanding friends and family. Arthur soon finds that going shopping isn't that tremendous an ordeal</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Morgana

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shiny4LoVe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiny4LoVe/gifts).



> I'm going to do what I did last year and write a Christmas story that I'll be posting in chapters. New parts should appear every few days into December. This is my personal Advent challenge in a way.
> 
> This is being written for shiny4love's prompt: _Not sure of the details but maybe Arthur really sucks at buying presents. Merlin is the personal shopper at a swanky department store that is lumbered with helping him find just the right gifts. Maybe he ends up finding something magical just for himself._

Arthur closes the door on a swirl of sleet. He shakes off his gloves and scarf and dusts snow flakes off the top of his head. “Brr,” he says, as he tramps over to the hall cupboard to hang his jacket. Door open, he finds something in there that doesn't belong, a black sequinned scarf and light pink coat that's most certainly not his. “Morgana,” Arthur yells at the stairs. “How the fuck did you get in?”

Morgana appears at the top of the stairs. She has a mug in her hand – Arthur's favourite by the way – and she's shed her shoes and is traipsing around in her black tights. “I found your key under the mat.”

“I don't keep my key under the mat!” Arthur says, in a voice that would be thunderous if it hadn't been made a bit hoarse by the slight cold he's nursing. 

Probably hiding a smug smile, Morgana takes a sip of whatever's in her mug. “What does it matter how I got in? What matters is that I'm your guest now. You should pamper me.”

Arthur takes the stairs to his living room three at a time and has soon bounded over. “It matters because I won't be able to sleep at night if I don't know who exactly has the keys to my place.”

“As if I would murder my brother in his sleep,” Morgana tuts, padding over to Arthur's favourite armchair – the leather one that comes with an indentation in the shape of Arthur's bum – and sinking into it.

“Plus, I'm not required to pamper you,” Arthur says, slipping his hands in his pockets, not so much because that'll read like a casual pose but because he needs to stick his fingers somewhere warm and blowing on them in front of Morgana will make him look like a wimp.

Morgana blows on her beverage; unlike Arthur's hands that apparently needs cooling. “Actually you are required to; it's in the small print of the being a brother social contract. Besides, it's that time of the year.”

Still chilled to the bone, Arthur would love to wrap his hands around the mug Morgana's drinking from. “That time of the year?” he says, looking out of the window as if a weather assessment is going to tell him what Morgana's driving at, well other than it being the cold season.

“Yes, Christmas time!”

“It's fucking November, Morgana.”

Morgana clucks her tongue at the roof of her mouth, making a resounding noise like hooves on cobblestones. “Exactly, I'm giving you a little time to find my Christmas gift.”

“There's a whole bloody month to go!” It may not look like it because they're having a freak weather week, with snow that stays on the ground of all things, but there's till some way to go till Christmas.

“Yes, I know,” Morgana says as if she's a wise oracle imparting truth to lesser mortals. “But you're so hopeless at buying presents that I thought I'd give you fair warning.”

“You mean you want me to go Christmas shopping in November?”

“Absolutely, dear,” Morgana says, stretching in Arthur's armchair, her over-sized slouchy dress riding up. “You need all the time in the world, you're such a hopeless case.”

“What was wrong with what I got you last year!” Arthur exclaims, because her little act implies she disliked his last present.

“Gifts certificates, Arthur, really?” Morgana asks, with a raise of her eyebrows that makes her look particularly witchy.

“So you could get what you wanted!” Arthur protests, eyes widening in indignation. 

“That's such a careless, I-don't-give-a-shit present, Arthur,” she says, pursing her mouth.

“Okay, let's sat that wasn't inventive,” Arthur says, holding a finger up while he admits to being less than innovative shopping wise. “What was wrong with your gift from two years ago?”

“A fountain pen?” Morgana cackles evilly. “Everything. I'm not an eighty year old pensioner with a penchant for calligraphy.”

“It was an excellent pen!” Arthur says, shoulders slumping.

“For you perhaps.”

“You know, you shouldn't judge presents,” Arthur reminds her tiredly, before sinking in the armchair opposite the one Morgana stole for her use. “It's tacky.”

“I don't believe in that lying for politeness' sake,” Morgana says, highly scornful. “Besides, when you give out presents you do so with a view to pleasing the giftee.”

“I thought what mattered was doing something for the other person,” Arthur says, before resorting to the banality of adding, “a gift that comes from the heart.”

Morgana picks up on how mawkish that was. “Oh, Arthur, I didn't know you cared.”

“I don't,” he says in a tone that decreases in pitch to resemble a grumble.

“Don't be so cranky now!” she says, putting the mug down on the floor, a stain ring forming on the floor where she's deposited it. He'll have her hide for that, one day. “I have a solution to all your woes. I went to the trouble of bookmarking a few gift idea websites. So the task of finding me the perfect present will be easier on you.”

Arthur stiffens. “You used my laptop without permission!” 

Morgana stands, slipping her five-inch heel boots on. “Now, now, I didn't watch your porn,” she says. “Not all of it anyway. Though I definitely preferred the videos featuring all those lanky, dark-haired guys. They were much more up my street than all that boring, bland office porn you've got downloaded.” She scoffs. “Sex on a photocopier, really? Sometimes I wonder how you can be both so unoriginal and related to me.”

Arthur says only one word in a low and subtly menacing tone: “Morgana...”

Morgana must have sensed he's really miffed because she pulls her hair over her shoulder, fluffing up her side part. “I need to be going now,” she says, taking the stairs down. “But don't forget, starting this weekend, you'll go Christmas shopping for me.”

Arthur trots over and peeks down at the landing, where Morgana is. “I don't have time for that, Morgana.”

Morgana gets her coat and scarf from the cupboard. “Sorry, Arthur. Can't hear you.” She loops her scarf around her neck, adjusting the fall of her hair again. “You know my expectations. Don't disappoint me.”

With that, she's gone, leaving Arthur to curse alone and under his breath. It's not quite as satisfying as directing his complaints at her.


	2. Leon's Bright Plan

During weekdays Arthur is so busy that he scarcely remembers about Morgana's threat, but the weekend brings the memory back with it. Must be all the time on his hands, Arthur tells himself. At first he only grudgingly checks out the links she provided by virtually hacking into his computer. (That it's not password protected doesn't mean that what she did isn't wrong.) But then he realises that choosing an item from the multitude she short-listed is nearly impossible.

There's such a variety in there it's staggering. It blows Arthur's mind that there's such gift option diversity available to the on-line shopper.

It's worse than if she'd just given him free rein because in that case he'd have had his personal preferences to go on. This way he's adrift in a sea of gift ideas that don't speak to him.

He's about to buy the first item on the list and be done with this, when he receives a text. It's from Morgana and says _'don't you dare buy the first thing I bookmarked.'_

Arthur drops his hand from his mouse and spits out a choice swear word or two.

Then he starts despairing.

It's Leon, a few days later, who gives him the perfect idea. “Why don't you get yourself a personal shopper?”

“A personal shopper?” Arthur says, finishing the day's report. “You mean...”

“You know those people who help you making shopping choices?” Leon says as though Arthur is a bit slow on the uptake. “Getting one is easy. If you flaunt your wallet, that is.”

Since Arthur has just been promoted to Head of Sales, he can definitely parade his riches around. “You know, maybe that's not a bad idea,” Arthur says, going over the practicalities of it in his head and launching his browser once he's come to the conclusion that Leon's plan is a sound one. 

Leon's always been the most prudent of his friends. The voice of reason Geraint called him.

After hitting Google and having visualised a few pages of results, he lands himself on the Harvey Nichols website. Clicking on the 'personal shopping' icon leads him to the related sub-page. A quick skim reveals the following information:

_Maybe you need a little help putting together a new outfit for that special occasion or event? Are you thinking of getting yourself a new work wardrobe, or even looking to find advice on how to wear the latest trends? Perhaps you simply need a bit of help deciding on the perfect gift. Services include one-to-one consultations, wardrobe updates as well as a more customised service for your special event._

There's a number at the bottom, which Arthur promptly calls. “Yes, I'm calling to book a personal shopper.”


	3. Meet Merlin

Not knowing how to get a hold of his personal shopper exactly, Arthur walks up to the help desk. “My name's Pendragon. I have an appointment with one of your personal shoppers?”

The girl manning the desk – her name tag says 'Gwen' – checks the relevant information on her computer. “Oh, yes, I can see you,” she says, her eyes focusing on the screen and narrowing tightly as she taps the LCD screen. “You're booked with Merlin.”

“Merlin? Is that even a proper name?” he asks, wondering whether that's part of the Christmas theme they've got going. “Or is it just a name you came up with to impress the shopping customers with your winter wonderland theme?”

Gwen stammers but it's a man's voice who answers him. “Merlin's actually my name and, no, it's not in use as a selling strategy.”

Arthur turns around, ready to give the personal shopper his mind when he freezes. Merlin is, as his luck would have it, exactly Arthur's type. He's got a shock of full dark hair, plump lips Arthur's better not think about the possible uses of, and lovely blue eyes. And of course, Arthur's antagonised him. Still, he can't quite back-pedal without coming across as a complete moron and losing every ounce of dignity he once possessed. “Forgive me for assuming that such an uncommon, outlandish name was only being employed for commercial purposes.”

“Not everything is about selling,” Merlin says, quick to retort. His eyes flash quite an enticing colour when he's angry.

“Says the sales assistant.”

“I assist customers in making their choices,” Merlin says, “I don't sell a persona.”

Arthur snorts. To his own horror, he adds, “So you weren't going to be obsequious and polite while trying to squeeze the most money out of me?” 

“You'll never find out,” Merlin says through gritted teeth, before making to turn.

“What!” Arthur says. Without a personal shopper he's going to be back to square one. He needs help. “You can't do that; I booked your services!”

“You'll find out that I can opt out if the customer is as offensive and rude as you are!” Merlin says, his hands going to his hips as he looks away. “It's in the rule book!”

“Merlin,” Gwen says, trying to catch Merlin's gaze. “Mr Aeredian is not like our old boss. Please, be prudent.”

Merlin's nose wrinkles in distaste at the notion of serving Arthur. 

“I'm sure Mr Pendragon will apologise,” Gwen adds, looking pleadingly and admittedly sweetly at him.

Arthur isn't immune to that kind of look nor does he actually want to get anyone sacked before Christmas, so he says, “I suppose I could try and forget the fact you weren't so nice if you'd just help me choose a present for my sister.”

“You could try, uh?” Merlin says, his lips quirking.

“Yes, I could do that,” Arthur liberally concedes.

“Mm,” Merlin says, with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “And I suppose I could help you part from your money.”

Arthur shrugs. The minimum spend required to be guaranteed the services of a personal shopper is £2,500 and he knew that before starting on his quest to find the perfect holiday gift for his sister. He has no doubt that those two grand are only going to be the tip of the iceberg. He doesn't much care. He just needs something for Morgana. Anything that will shut her up will do, no matter how much it costs. “Lead the way,” he says, waving his hand about as he prepares to follow Merlin.

“So what type is your sister?” Merlin asks, clearly having temporarily buried the hatchet and gone back to business. He weaves his way around the stands full of merchandise as if he could walk the premises blind, which he probably can given the nature of his job, and makes a beeline for the lifts. 

“Why, you planning on hitting on her?” Arthur asks before he's properly thought the question out.

Merlin scoffs. “Hardly. I'm just doing my job. Besides, I'm gay.”

Arthur watches Merlin blush, a pinkish tint spreading from his forehead to his neck. “I shouldn't have said that, sorry. Sharing that kind of personal information is unprofessional.” Merlin loosens his black uniform tie. “You're not here for that.”

“That's good to know,” Arthur says, blurting that sentence out more out of instinct than a nicely conceived plan. He'd just thought that and said then it without his brain having anything to do with that.

“Now you'll come up with some stereotype about me working this type of job while being gay.”

“Why should I?” Arthur asks, as the lift opens and he and Merlin trot in. “I am too.”

Merlin ducks his head and pushes button number 3. “Some people do come up with all sorts of thoughtless remarks.” He gnaws on his lower lip, then shakes his head as if to shake off the thought. “So your sister, what type is she?”

“She's very fashion conscious,” Arthur says, reviewing Morgana's rather outré style. “And she likes quality items.”

“Good,” Merlin says, as the doors of the lift slide open, the women section of the store spreading its goods before them. “In that case I'm pretty sure I can do something for you.”

Arthur isn't much listening to Merlin's words because he's focusing on the way the floor is decked for the upcoming season. The store has been transformed into a fantasy-land, complete with fake snow adorning all horizontal surfaces and equally fake pines laden with all manners of decorations pinpointing various locations. There are wreaths, lanterns and festoons everywhere. Though the colours are understated, probably to suit the high-end nature of the store, the lavishness of the display cannot be doubted. It's arresting enough that he gets a bit dizzy.

Merlin coughs. “I was thinking, perhaps the Fendi scarf? It would go perfectly with the new Dior coat we're stocking.”

“I only have a scant idea what you're talking about,” Arthur says, because while he's certainly heard of the brands he's not so knowledgeable about fashion as to recognise the items Merlin's referring to. 

Merlin chuckles into his fist. “Well, those are our hot autumn sells.”

“I guess that means lots of people are currently out there wearing that stuff?” Arthur says, putting two and two together. He knows enough about marketing to apply his know how to, well, fashion trends.

“A lot of our customers are, sure.” Merlin nods, eyebrow tilted.

“Then that's not what Morgana wants,” Arthur says, fairly sure that's true, that he knows his sister that much. “She wants to make a statement, be unique.” And isn't she, independently of what she wears.

“Oh, right,” Merlin says, eyes twinkling. “I know that sort of customer.”

“Are you implying my sister's a spoilt, high maintenance pain in the arse?”

Merlin dimples, his eyes shining. “You said it, not me.” He adds on a 'sir' that's most certainly not very respectful.

Arthur scoffs but dutifully follows Merlin around as the man shows him the floor. As they move about rails laden with designer clothes are wheeled out in front of him, while Merlin grabs glitzy dresses, knits and cashmere coats and adds them to the selection of possible presents for Morgana. He shoves the whole into Arthur's arms. “And my very own personal suggestion,” he adds, when Arthur's arms are full of garments, a few slung across his shoulders too. “This shoulder bag that can double up as a laptop case. It's simple, functional, and unless you googled it you wouldn't know it's worth a little more than a thou. It's what our old boss called understated chic.”

“Understated?” Arthur asks, wondering if Merlin's having him on. The bag may look simple with its leather trims and linear design but it's anything but understated, considering that it comes at a whopping £1,000. “Mmm.”

“I don't make them.” Merlin shrugs. “But they tell me they're supposed to be sturdy as well. So I'd go for it.”

“Shouldn't I get my sister something a little more down to earth like... a new gym outfit?” Arthur wonders out loud. “Morgana's current one is a bit worn.”

Merlin laughs as if he's found Arthur's remark very funny. “Do you know women at all?”

Arthur chooses not to answer that. “I bet you're going to say you do.”

“Well, no, and I'm not even saying that they all think alike because that's just plain stupid. Still, I have a feeling your stylish sister would want something different.”

“But, but--” Arthur says, firmly believing that comfort and health should come first, and neither are overly expensive bags that could be had for much less. “Frills aren't useful!”

“Believe me,” Merlin says, with a cheeky grin. “It's Christmas. You want to get her something a bit more special. Something to remember.”

Arthur settles for getting Morgana jogging trousers -- because he likes to stick by his own opinion -- a cashmere cable-knit jumper that looks soft, like the fur of the cat they had as kids, and the shoulder bag Merlin suggested. "Well," Merlin says, as the cashier rings the items up for Arthur, "I hope I was of help even though we didn't start off on the right foot.” He pauses and then deadpans. “Because you were a bit of a prat."

The cashier goggles at Merlin, patently outraged by Merlin ignoring the rules of customer-employee interaction, but Arthur can't even summon the wherewithal to get offended at Merlin's cheek. Merlin's cheekiness is too sneaky for that, mixed up as it is with rather endearing manners. It's simply impossible to hold a grudge with him for long. Right now Merlin is in fact smiling, all pleased with himself for having helped Arthur out of his quandary while having made it clear that he's nobody's servant. "Well, Merlin, I'll admit you weren't entirely useless."

"Good to know," Merlin says, leaning against the till counter, his hip canted in a way that makes Arthur stupidly zero in on it, awaking lustful thoughts about it and the reach and span of that waist. 

"Look, perhaps," Arthur starts, as the cashier requests his credit card, which Arthur hands over, "your expertise could--"

Before Arthur can finish his sentence, Merlin's been buzzed. He reads the screen of a seven-inch device that looks partway like a tablet and says, "I'll have to be off. I need to serve one of our a mini-customers."

Arthur parses that, then tries again. When he's positive he hasn't got what Merlin means, he asks, "What's that?"

"That's a kiddie client. Mega moneyed mummies love to bring their offspring along so I can choose the coolest looks for them."

"Won't they outgrow them in a matter of weeks?"

Merlin lifts his shoulders up to his ears. "Their money."

"Oh, that's so stupid," Arthur both thinks and says. Though his family was well off to start with, his father never indulged either him or Morgana. Every present they ever got was hard earned and though everything they were ever given was extremely good quality no money was wasted on items that would be quickly replaced.

Merlin sniggers and lowers his eyes. "What can I say? I owe my career to big spenders."

Arthur is quite enticed by the fall of Merlin's lashes and the way his lips crease to form into the smile he's currently wearing. "Then I hope designer mum buys a lot of stuff for their toddler."

"Me too," Merlin says, grinning unapologetically. He winces right next though. "Sorry, got to go," he adds, before pushing off the counter. 

Merlin's already a few yards away, dodging busy shoppers stampeding about, when he raises his hand in a wave, calling out, "Have a Merry Christmas, Mr Pendragon."

Arthur lifts his hand in salute too.

A slightly raspy cough interrupts his reverie. "If you could sign on the dotted line," the cashier says as Arthur watches Merlin disappear into the crowd.

Arthur signs. He doesn't even care that the receipt says: £3,359.


	4. The Invitation

Leon walks in, his tie chewed off at the end, the fabric in tatters.

Cupping his mouth, Arthur barks out laughing from behind his desk. “You can't be serious.”

“I had a nasty encounter with a teeny dog called Fluffy.”

Arthur hoots, slapping his thigh.

“Go on, mock me,” Leon says, putting his briefcase on his desk before stripping off his coat. “That means I won't be inviting you to my Christmas Dinner, which I'd fully planned to do.”

Arthur's laughter slowly quietens. “You wanted to invite me over for Christmas?”

“Yes,” Leon says, lifting the ends of his ruined tie, before untying it and binning it. “That was what I meant to do before you laughed about my encounter with Fluffy.” Leon shakes his head and rattles off a theatrical sigh. “So insensitive to my woes.”

“If Mab's cooking then I take it all back!” Arthur says, strangely looking forward to dining at Leon's rather than spending another Christmas with Father and Catrina arguing with him over every little thing while Morgana snarks in the wings.

“I'll have to think about it,” says Leon, sinking into his swivel chair before starting his computer. “You've completely shattered my faith in you.”

While Leon engages in even more theatrics, Arthur gets into his e-mail account. “Shut up, and just tell me what you want me to get you.”

“I'm not sure...” Leon says, tugging at the ends of his beard like a villain twirling his moustache. “I've still not decided whether I want you over or not.”

“Then I'll come empty-handed.”

“Don't you dare,” Leon says as he starts working on his spreadsheets, the multi coloured graphics taking up his screen. “I'll mail you my wish list.”

For all their banter, Leon does no such thing of course, so Arthur has to think of a present to give him all by himself. Since he's no better at gift shopping than he was a week ago, Arthur once again phones Harvey Nichols; except his shtick is slightly different this time. “Yes, yes hello,” he barks into his mobile as he stalks down the street, threading through the busy London crowd. “I want to book Mr Emrys' services, please.”

“Sir, we can't guarantee Mr Emrys will be able attend you on the day you specify for your appointment.”

“I realise this,” Arthur says, avoiding a brolly wielding pedestrian that comes very close to blinding him. “That's why I'll be booking my shopping session for a day he's free.”

“We usually assign shoppers only a few days before the appointment itself, depending on their rota,” the operator says. “I can't give you any precise information so far in advance.”

“I'm sure you can make an exception.”

“Sir,” says the operator, sounding as if she's about to fire off a polite but no less decisive refusal.

“Especially since I'll be needing your services much more in future," Arthur says, banking on the fact that hints as to his future customer loyalty will bring this woman around. "It's the season, after all.”

There's a sigh on the other end of the line, and then a sound as if someone's covering the receiver. For a while all noises are muffled, then the voice comes back. “I'll see what I can do, sir.”

“Yes, that would be lovely.”

“I can slot you in for tomorrow,” the operator says, as the sound of tapping on a keyboard makes itself heard. “Would eight PM be fine? That would leave you with two hours to do your shopping in.”

Arthur gets generally off work at six, so that is a bit inconvenient in that he'll have to hang around central London for two hours before he can make his way to the department store. He supposes he'll have to make do. He can always drop at the pub for a pint to kill the time. “That would be excellent, thank you.”

Merlin, as it turns out, looks exactly the same – wearing as he is his black trousers, black shirt, and black tie uniform like last time – except for a faint trace of stubble dusting his cheeks in a way that wasn't apparent before and that Arthur deems rogueishly sexy. 

Recognition sparks in him as he sees Arthur. “So,” he says, “you're the one responsible for the lengthening of my shift.”

Arthur doesn't immediately cotton on. When he does, he says, “Oh shit, you were supposed to be home?”

“Yeah, I usually finish at seven on Wednesdays,” Merlin says, with a roll of his eyes. “Though apparently you have clout. They changed my shifts around.”

“I'm sorry,” Arthur says. He can sympathise. There are days, especially the long ones after he's had a long and tedious meeting, when he can think of nothing else but going home and relax. “I didn't mean to ruin your day.”

“I only have to give up my squash game. That's hardly ruinous.”

Arthur arches his eyebrow.

“What, you thought I wasn't into sports?”

“You don't have the physique,” Arthur says.

“Glad to know you checked me out and found me wanting.”

Though Arthur truly appreciates Merlin's body type to the point of thinking him utterly fetching and attractive in a mind blowing way, Arthur doesn't say that. What comes out is something completely unrelated to what he thinks. “You just don't have evident, bulging muscles, that's all.” And then he continues and pastes on a fully depreciative, “I mean you're on the scrawny side.”

“Oh so you investigated my bulges,” Merlin says, without sounding too offended by Arthur's words.

Arthur splutters.

It's Merlin who saves him from descending into total incoherence. “So who are you here for this time? Or is it still your sister?”

Feeling on safer ground, Arthur promptly answer. “No, she's been pampered enough. It's my colleague, Leon.”

“Mmm,” Merlin says, crossing his arms. “Are we talking _colleague_ colleague or friendly colleague?”

“Leon's a friend,” Arthur says, seeing no reason for not acknowledging as much. Though they don't see each other very often, he and Leon always find time for a drink at the pub or for a joint excursion to go and see Arsenal football games. “I'll be his guest at Christmas, so his present should be something special.”

Merlin nods, his brow creasing in thought. “We can pop over to the Food Department and get your friend a hamper.”

“Good idea,” Arthur says. Leon's always loved food. He's the one who always goes for elaborate sandwiches at the company's canteen and the one who tries out new dishes when they're dining out. “Though I'm not sure Leon's wife will be happy if he gets a pot belly.”

“I can only suggest you also get him a gym card,” Merlin says, as he leads Arthur to the escalators. “Though of course I can't help you there.”

“No, I didn't think you could,” Arthur says, almost forgetting what he's talking about as he watches Merlin lean against the escalator's rail. He's a step up and this way Arthur can take in the long line that is his body. "Though if you have gym suggestions, I wouldn't be averse to hearing them."

"I only play squash," Merlin says, with a friendly smile. "So I wouldn't know. I could ask my friend Gwaine and then text you the details."

Arthur's too busy feeling irrationally dismayed at the mention of this friend to understand that Merlin means to give him his phone number. By the time he's realised this and stopped staring, Merlin has changed his mind. "Sorry, never mind that. That was extremely unprofessional of me."

Before Arthur can give him all the numbers he disposes of – home, work mobile, personal mobile -- Merlin's already made it halfway across the food department. To catch up with him, Arthur has to run. When he does rejoin him, Merlin's already started listing off the contents of two separate hampers.

Arthur's tongue basically sticks to the roof of his mouth and he can't find a way to revert to the previous subject without sounding like a loser. 

"In short, I'd opt for the Connoisseur Hamper," Merlin says, tapping his finger against the shelf displaying said item. "It's much more complete and it contains Fair Trade coffee – fair trade being great, because you're being environmentally friendly because it's Christmas and we should spread the love – and really good clotted cream biscuits." Merlin's lips tremble and quirk. "Though my mum's are better."

"Are they?" Arthur asks, not quite caring about the information Merlin's rattling off, not as much as he's interested in the hints that Merlin's dropping about his private life. 

"Yes, much softer and creamier."

"You don't look like a gourmet," Arthur says, giving Merlin a once over.

"Because I'm a bit on the lanky side?" Merlin asks, eyes crinkling at the corners in a myriad little parallel lines. "I can eat my weight in food."

"Can you?" Arthur asks, not sure what sort of question he's asking, just that he's giving air to his mouth whilst he ogles Merlin.

"Yes, you should see me," Merlin says, ducking his head. "Can eat tons. We actually sell my favourite food here at the store."

"Really?"

Merlin's nose wrinkles up and he bursts out laughing. "No, I was sticking to my seller duties. But if you want the truth--"

"Yeah, I do," Arthur says, his breath shortening though it's not as if he's been making speeches to run so completely out of it.

"My favourite dish is Chicken Korma."

"I'll try and remember that."

Merlin's mouth forms into an inviting smile.

Arthur's almost persuaded himself to lean in a bit and see how Merlin reacts to slightly more open flirting when Merlin startles and says, "God, it's nearly nine and we haven't discussed the rest of your present yet."

"The rest of my present?"

"Yeah," Merlin says, scratching at his forehead with a lone forefinger. "The, um, minimum spend is a bit more than what this hamper costs. You've got to get something else."

"Okay," Arthur says, making rapid mental calculations. His bank account isn't going to suffer. Yet. The hamper can be a family gift for Leon and his wife. He can always get Leon something more personal. "Any ideas?"

"Plenty, but you'll have to narrow down the field for me. Tell me about your friend Leon."

As Merlin guides him around another floor, Arthur shares stories about Leon. He's not sure they'll help inspiring Merlin, but Merlin keeps asking questions and commenting and supplying reminiscences of his own relating to his own oddball friends, so that by the end of it they're chatting animatedly. Arthur's hardly looking at the items Merlin's presenting him with, but it's not as if he's concerned. Everything here is good quality anyway. Leon should be content. "I'll keep it in mind," he says when Merlin suggests an option Arthur could be theoretically content with if he only wanted to curtail his shopping session with Merlin. "Show me something else. Something you like."

"We should be concentrating on Leon," Merlin says, lowering his gaze so it encompasses the pricey slippers he's showcasing.

"I think I've told you the best stories I've got about him," Arthur says, not knowing what else he should say about Leon when Leon's not the person he's focusing on right now.

"I do feel like I know him a little."

Arthur has a feeling Leon would like Merlin. He wouldn't enthuse long about him, but he'd be pleased with him. "I probably bored you with my tales."

"Nah," Merlin says, shaking his head. "You're slowly becoming one of my nicest customers."

"Who's the nicest?" Arthur asks, partly to keep the conversation going and partly to find out who Merlin likes better than him.

"A nice old lady with four daughters and a handful of grandchildren," Merlin says, his voice warm. "It's my second Christmas here and so far she's been a fixture." His grin widens, so much so Arthur wants to grin with him. "And the grand-kids are polite and clearly love me."

"Of course, children would love you," Arthur says, because he feels like it's quite impossible not to love Merlin. "You and your big elf ears."

Merlin touches the tip of one. "At least they're seasonal?" 

Laughter cracks out of Arthur. He only sobers when Merlin reddens. "Yeah, right, show me something else."

It's nearly closing time, one of the exits closed for the night, when they finally have an assortment of items to to take to the till. "Thank you," Arthur says, "for helping me out with these. I'm sure Leon's never had such nice presents."

"I'm pretty sure Leon's lucky having a friend like you," Merlin says, giving Arthur his hand to shake. "And your sister, too."

Arthur takes Merlin hand in his quite firmly. "And I wasn't too unlucky having you as my personal shopper for the day."

"What a nice compliment," Merlin says halfway sarcastic, halfway, Arthur dares say, fond. 

"Yes, as you can see, I'm good with those."

Merlin laughs.

"I should write a book," Arthur says, now downright babbling, "the Arthur Pendragon Playbook to Sober Compliments."

As Arthur runs off at the mouth -- he wishes he had a gag -- Merlin places a hand on his shoulder. Arthur's heart gives a violent kick. Then Merlin looks over Arthur's shoulder and it's clear why his hand wandered in the first place. He was manhandling Arthur aside. "I think Kara, the cashier, hates you. It's closing time?"

"Oh, yeah," right, Arthur says, looking at the pile of presents slung over his arm, thankful that the hamper was carted to the till prior to this. "Sorry about that. It's..." Arthur shuts up. He's clearly wasting these people's time. "Yeah, I'd better be going."

Face flaming, Arthur's jaw stiffens. His eyes find the floor; with a sprint he takes off towards the tills.

Merlin gives him a toothy grin and a stupid bow. He calls out, "Merry Christmas, Mr Pendragon."

Arthur's already approaching the check out desk, but he turns around and half yells, "Arthur."

"Merry Christmas, Arthur."


	5. The Great Christmas Defection

Arthur is applying sticky tape to the sides of the wrapping paper, when the phone rings. If he lets go, his whole construction will come undone. On the other hand it might be work calling. He'd better answer. 

The moment he lets his hands drop, flaps of seasonal paper come undone, gaping open to show the back cover of a book.

Arthur sighs but goes to get the phone. “Hello,” he says, looking forlornly at his attempt at gift wrapping. 

“Arthur,” says Father, the word sounding like a conversation in and of itself, one his father has conducted without any input from Arthur. Then with no more preamble, he continues, “what is this I hear about you not coming over on Christmas Eve?”

Arthur sits back on his bed, the covers mushrooming either side of him as the fabric whooshes. “Yeah,” he says, tapping the side of his handset, “I got Catrina on the phone--”

“I know what you told her, Arthur,” his father says, his voice stern with reproach. “What I'd like to know is why you're standing us up and disrespecting a family tradition.”

“I wanted to to something different for once,” Arthur says, though what he means is that he needs to take a breather from his demanding family now and again. “I'll be there on Christmas Day proper.”

“Arthur, this is very rude of you,” Father says, voice clipped. “You've scarcely given us any warning.”

“Father, there's two weeks to go!”

Father, of course, ignores that. “Catrina already went grocery shopping and bought food for five.”

“Uncle Agravaine easily eats for two,” Arthur says, hoping to smooth things out.

“That doesn't excuse you.”

Arthur's shoulders droop. “Yes, yes, I realise, but I've told Leon I'd be there and I can't back out.”

“Unfortunately, what's done is done,” Father says, relenting just a bit. “And though this is annoying and remiss of you I can't see how you can get out of this quandary with your friend without being rude about it.”

"Yes, you see what sort of position I'm in."

"I still don't like this at all, Arthur."

“We'll see each other on Christmas morning, father,” Arthur says, once again trying to compromise. “In time to catch the carols.”

Father harrumphs something that Arthur can't manage to make out.

“There'll be presents for everybody,” Arthur says, in as genial a tone he can muster after he's been told off for doing nothing more than spending one single Christmas Eve away from his family.

As though Arthur hadn't said that at all but disowned his relatives, Father hangs up.

Temples thumping, Arthur goes back to his gift wrapping. Mechanical actions are at least soothing. With more attention than he would have otherwise given the operation, Arthur measures out lengths of paper to make rosettes. He then smooths out the envelope he'll use to slip the card into. After he's applied more sticky tape than looks pretty and more ribbons than looks tasteful to cover up his misstep, Arthur calls himself satisfied with his packet. Humming under his breath, he turns his attention to compiling the note that goes with the present.

He thinks of a variety of formulas, but all of them sound too mushy. In the end he goes for:

_Merry Christmas, Father,_

_Arthur._

When he's done, he lifts the phone and dials a number he knows by heart by now.

When Merlin sees him, he says, “Crap, you're either minted or a shopaholic.”

Arthur forks a hand through his hair and laughs, watching Merlin from behind the veil of his fringe. (This roundabout tells him he should invest in a haircut too.) “I'm neither,” Arthur says, then he specifies, “Not that I am complaining about my financial situation either.”

“Mmm, then you must just like shopping,” Merlin says, tapping his chin as if he's come to this great Eureka conclusion.

“No, no, I don't,” Arthur says, not wanting Merlin to assume he's a consumerist pig of the basest kind. He doesn't even like acquiring things unless it's specific objects he has a reason for craving like a shirt autographed by Aaron Ramsey. 

Merlin's eyebrows knit. “Then I'm not sure I understand what's going on.” 

Arthur has a feeling that the explanation is rather too sappy for words. But he isn't ready to put it out there yet, not in the least. That's because he's not particularly good at making sense of his feelings and If he thinks about them too much he's sure to get a headache. The workings of his inner self are often less than fathomable and it's too close to Christmas to be wishing self-discovery upon himself. “Let's say I let my father down today and I need to get him something more special than I already have to compensate.”

Merlin leans in, his breath smelling like cinnamon. “Why, what did you get him? Socks?”

“A book,” Arthur says, remembering queuing for Mr Montmouth in the hopes he would sign the jacket of the copy the historiography treatise he'd got for Father. “An autographed edition.”

“It doesn't sound like too bad a gift,” Merlin says, whistling, then searching Arthur's eyes as if he's got his fingers on the pulse of the problem. “Why do you think you have to add to it?”

“Told you, I need to make up for things,” he says with a shrug that's meant to put the discussion behind them, except he finds himself continuing to yammer on on the subject. “My father is strict and not very understanding.”

“But easily corrupted by presents?” Merlin asks, wagging an eyebrow.

Arthur chuckles, thinking that such a description doesn't fit his father at all. “Hardly.”

“Then you've really lost me.”

“It's really complicated,” Arthur says, not wanting to go over his feelings on the matter, not directly anyway. “My father surely is.”

Merlin scoffs. “Tell me about it.”

Caught a little by surprise, Arthur says, “Why your father like that too?”

“You could say that,” Merlin says, twisting his mouth in a half grimace. “My father's so complicated I never understood why he upped and left.”

Arthur feels like sharing Merlin's grimace. “Oh, I'm sorry I--”

Merlin catches his shoulder with his hand, squeezing. “Hey, I told you. Nothing wrong with what you said. You couldn't have known.”

The sad aura that came all over Merlin lifts again and with that the pall hanging over Arthur melts too. “I wouldn't want to take your smiles away from you.”

“And that's probably a hint as to me smiling too much.”

“Nah,” Arthur says, then feeling like a nudist on a beach full of people wearing their bathing suits he finishes that off with a banal generalisation. “You can't be a glum shop assistant.”

“Wouldn't help with the sales,” Merlin says, a hand going to cup his mouth to cover a chuckle. “Would it?”

“Not at all.”

“And we all know sales come first.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, pushing Merlin out of the way of a committed shopper going for the fitting rooms, “we do.”

Shopping for Arthur's father takes less than Arthur supposed it would. Once Arthur has supplied a few key facts about his father's personality, Merlin announces it'd be better if they went for classic with him and so they do. Once Merlin's got his directives, he zeroes in on a series of gift ideas that are traditional enough for Arthur's father not to object to. In less than forty minutes Arthur collects enough items to respect the minimum spend clause and items at that that he believes Father will appreciate.

But something is still not right.

Last time it took him way longer to reach the same objective. Today they've been quite quick with their shopping. Since there's no rule that specifies how much time a personal shopper needs to spend with their customer, Arthur supposes that now that they're done Merlin will go his merry way. Arthur finds that thought somewhat depressing. Even though there's little hope for a 'yes', Arthur asks, “How about me buying you a drink then to say thank you?”

“You're basically already paying for my services and I can't leave the premises,” Merlin says, though he sounds sorry about his answer.

Heat climbing steadily to his face to the point he's tempted to loosen the collar of his coat, Arthur looks at his shoes. “Yes, yes, of course. How silly of me to assume.”

A hand on his arm, Merlin cuts him off. “But you can buy me coffee here. We have a café on the fifth floor. That means I wouldn't be leaving the premises.”

“Coffee?” Arthur asks as if he's thinking about it. The moment Merlin's grin falters, he says, “I can do coffee. Get me there.”

“Only if you promise to grabs lots of sugar sachets,” Merlin says, as he leads Arthur to the personnel lifts. He swipes his magnetic card into a slot and the lifts pings open. “I always get self conscious about getting too many if somebody's around to see... But then my coffee never tastes right when I get the normal amount.”

“So you want me to steal sugar satchels for you?” Arthur says with an incredulous whoop of laughter.

“It's not stealing,” Merlin says, pushing the 5th floor button. “They're there for grabs.”

“Then why don't you do it?” Arthur asks, laughter lacing his voice. “Afraid perfect strangers will think you addicted to sugar?”

“Yeah, that's it, I have this terrible fear of being dubbed The Horrible Mr Sweet Tooth!” Merlin says, rolling his eyes.

Arthur does the same, bumping shoulders with Merlin.

As promised, Arthur gets Merlin his coffee, without forgetting the sugar satchels he wanted. Merlin nabs a table and more napkins than they can use. When Arthur rejoins him with their orders, he barks out with laughter. “You can't get your own sugar but it's okay for you to hoard all the napkins!”

Merlin nods wisely, lower lip caught in his upper one. “Totally. It's two completely different things.”

“You're a weirdo,” Arthur says, passing Merlin his coffee, which he saturates with sugar the moment he gets it.

Arthur winces. “Your dentist must be happy. You're going to make him a very rich man.”

Merlin smiles widely so that an inordinate amount of teeth are showing. “I'll have you know I have no cavities. I have a perfect smile.”

“That you do.” Arthur rattles out and before he knows it, he's been made breathless by something he thinks of as a statement of fact.

Merlin's smile softens and Arthur has to learn how to use his lungs again. At one time it feels as though they have entirely ceased to cooperate. Fuck his inner self. This message is pretty loud and clear. He's screwed. He's half in love with his personal shopper. Fuck Christmas.

Thankfully, Merlin, who seems wholly unaware of what's going on with Arthur, asks him, “So are you a Christmas lover or are you a Grinch?”

“Neither,” Arthur says, his fingers wrapped around his cup for warmth while he also desperately tries to keep his cool. “You?”

“Oh I love it,” Merlin says, drinking a sip that leaves a lick of coffee foam on his upper lip. Arthur just longs to remove it with his thumb. “But I've learnt that it's the worst time of the year in my line of work. Usually the moment December strikes I don't get a free minute to myself.”

From them on the conversation takes off. Without naming names, Merlin tells him about his worst customers (City yuppies), about his favourite experience while working the job (reuniting a lost child with his mum), and about the perks of the occupation, (getting good discounts). At length they touch on more personal subjects, Merlin telling him about his mother, who lives in a tiny rural village, his flatmate, that Gwaine bloke he'd mentioned before, and his most quirky habits.

Although he feels like he's talked about his personal circumstances more than he generally does with new people, Arthur shares something about himself as well. He tells Merlin about his promotion and upon Merlin asking him, he bores the poor man to death with detail about strategic planning and account management. He hopes he's not losing points discussing this. Most of his dates tend to nod off when he does. Merlin though is still listening, putting questions and keeping Arthur talking. Other subjects are touched upon. Arthur doesn't really refer to his father any more than he already has, but Merlin appears to have sensed his unwillingness to talk about him, so his silence on the topic doesn't come across as unnatural. It's rather a kindness.

They're discussing Merlin's favourite music – his mobile downloads featuring titles Arthur has never heard of, not even in passing – when Merlin takes a glance at the screen of his portable device. “Crap, I've got to go. I've got one more customers lined up.”

“Yeah, okay,” Arthur says, making an effort to sound reasonable about it though he'd love to chat with Merlin long into the evening. “I took up enough of your time.”

“It's not that,” Merlin says, fidgeting before pocketing his mini tablet thingy again. “It's just that duty calls, yeah?”

Merlin hesitates some more, Arthur doesn't know why or what for. He shoot Arthur these odd glances Arthur can't read, worries his lips and drums his fingers on the table, all before saying, “Yeah, I'll go now.”

“Just one thing,” Arthur says, leaning over to swipe his thumb across the soft curve of Merlin's upper lip, the thrill enough to make his heart tighten in his chest, a contraction before its beat rolls out like a drumbeat. “Coffee moustache.”

Merlin laughs softly against Arthur's palm, the sensation mellowing Arthur's guts. “I don't know whether I should thank you for the save or be very angry at you for not telling me about it before.”

In an attempt to be jokey and suave, Arthur winks. “You should be very grateful and very nice.”

“Should I?” Merlin asks, his breath fanning Arthur skin with little puffs of warmth.

“Yeah.” Arthur’s' mouth slips open on a gasp. For a moment, albeit a brief one, he's convinced they're going to kiss and he wants to laugh with the light-heartedness that such a thought brings.

But then Merlin's being buzzed and the potential for things to develop romantically shatters. “Got to go,” Merlin says, pushing off the table. “But thanks for the coffee, Arthur.”

“You're welcome,” Arthur says, watching Merlin go, his shoulders slanting downwards.

He drinks the dregs of his drink.


	6. Can it be, the declaration

“Arthur, you're most definitely not being yourself,” Leon says, as Arthur stares into his tea, a few tiny ground leaves swirling to the surface of it.

Arthur stirs his spoon in his mug. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Leon pushes his plate aside. His, unlike Arthur's, has been cleaned of its contents. “Oh, yes, you do. That--” He points a forefinger at him. “--is proof; you already stirred your tea.”

“So?” Arthur asks, giving his spoon a third deliberate spin. “Is there a rule against doing it as many times as you want?”

“And you've not eaten,” Leon says, gesturing at his plate, still cumbered with most of the edibles the canteen employee had larded on it. “And today the special was salmon pie. Salmon pie, Arthur, your favourite. That's suggestive of a serious crisis.”

“Maybe all those PETA PSAs have turned me veggie,” Arthur says, nocking up an eyebrow like an arrow meant to deflate Leon's theory, which he must do because acknowledging that Leon's right is like owning up to behaving like a love-lorn teen. He's well past that, sod it. “Haven't you thought of that?”

Leon sinks back against his chair and folds his arms. “Say what you want but I think you're preoccupied.”

“I'm not troubled,” Arthur says, and that is true. Troubled is too big a word anyway, though he can't say he hasn't had his head up in the clouds lately. He's not going to admit as much to Leon but he's been plagued by thoughts of Merlin recently, in a fully rational and grown up way.

And isn't that true. The way he has let himself down by indulging in inaction is distinctly adult. The grown-up fear of taking chances has sadly worked to sabotage his interactions with Merlin.

During the last week in fact, he's gone over and over their last meeting, and while the memory of it makes him smile, he must acknowledge that he failed to accomplish anything. The truth is that he wants to talk to Merlin again and though he can think of a way to make that happen, he knows that that method isn't the right one, not if he's allowed into Merlin's life by paying for his time.

So even if he wants to get to hear more of Merlin's tales, to know about his misadventures with the customers and to be made party to more of his humorous outbursts, he can't do that while pretending to be happy with their relationship as it is, aka a professional one. His and Merlin's entire acquaintance being defined by that label, Arthur doesn't feel too good day dreaming about Merlin in more laid back scenarios, scenarios that is, that have Merlin starring in some x-rated fantasies of his.

No, that's wrong and he won't do it unless he knows Merlin's fine with them. If he wanted to take part in them of his own volition, Arthur would be, naturally, overjoyed. 

Leon snaps his fingers at him. “Arthur, are you in there, mate?”

“Yes, absolutely,” Arthur says, skimming his hand down his tie and pretending he's not been mooning over a guy. “I just got lost thinking about last quarter's figures. You know the report I owe...”

Leon looks like he doesn't believe a word Arthur's saying, which marks him out as frightfully insightful, but at least he doesn't press. “Okay, have it your way,” he says, grabbing the last lone chip on his plate and munching on it for as long as he can.

Their lunch break is soon over, thank the lord, so the conversation is safely curtailed. Still, Leon keeps sending him odd glances every now and then until their work day comes to a close and they have to part ways in the car park. 

Not much later Arthur's over at the department store. He doesn't even have to ask for Merlin; Gwen pages him the moment she sees Arthur walk towards her desk.

Merlin startles him with a hand to his shoulder long before Arthur thought it would be feasible for him to appear. “Arthur,” he says, sounding a bit concerned. “Aren't you...” He falters to a halt, then, expression sweetening, he adds, “I'm glad to see you, but you're here again."

"Well, yes," Arthur says, since that's as obvious as the nose sitting on his face.

Merlin tugs at his earlobe in a fidgety way. "Yeah, I can see that. And, of fuck protocol. Arthur, are you sure you're not a... compulsive shopper?” 

Arthur stutters. Of all possible observations Merlin might have made as to his repeated visits, this is the one he'd least expected. “No, I--”

Merlin leans closer and lowers his voice, his hand still on Arthur's shoulder, sparking heat, though the gesture must only be intended as comfort. “I shouldn't be saying this, because well, obviously I'm supposed to milk you dry, but I like you.” Merlin's eyes take on a softer edge, rounding off at the corners. “So I don't want to enable your problem, Arthur. It's not right.”

Emboldened by the fact Merlin likes him, Arthur blurts out the first bit that needs explaining. “I'm not a shophaolic and I suffer from no compulsive disorders.”

“Arthur,” Merlin says, his tone soft though the way he says his name is highly sceptical, “I would never judge you for that, you know. Honest.” He takes a deep breath and then continues, “Arthur, you're a great guy and it wouldn't be fair of me to--”

“Will you shut up!” Arthur says more loudly than he'd meant to and perhaps more crossly too. 

Merlin's face falls, dimples disappearing into the tightness of features smoothing into a sad mask.

“I was trying to say,” Arthur says before Merlin can look even more derelict, “that I have no shopping compulsion.”

“You've become quite a regular,” Merlin interjects, his eyebrow climbing. “You've come three times in twenty days and not just to get a pair of slippers for your granddad.” Merlin fetches a sigh. “Arthur, you're spending a fortune.”

“Yes, true,” Arthur says, because in all honesty he can't not admit to that, “but today... today's different.”

“Arthur, I don't want you to get in trouble or suffer from the consequences of an untreated problem if you don't have to,” Merlin says, determinedly clenching his fists, eyes firing. “I know what that kind of compulsion can do. You're far too special for that.”

“Merlin,” Arthur says, lengthening the vowels that go into forming Merlin's name out of exasperation, “can you please listen to me without nattering on and on about my supposed problems?”

Merlin doesn't look as if he's persuaded Arthur's not lying, but his gnaws on his lip and bobs his head in assent. “Yeah, okay go on.”

“As I said,” Arthur says trying to get back on track, though he's more than mildly discombombulated by the hurdles Merlin's making him jump. “Today's different.”

“How so?” Merlin asks, with the kind of expression that says 'you better sound convincing' pasted on his face.

“Because I've come to here so you can select an outfit for me.”

“Okay,” Merlin says, nodding his head. “You're not spending a fortune on presents. You're still spending a mint shopping for yourself though.”

“So that I can use it to go out on a date,” Arthur ploughs over Merlin because there's nothing else he can do given that Merlin doesn't seem to be getting him.

“I can understand wanting to look nice for a date,” Merlin says, gentle, resigned, probably because he's giving up on Arthur as basket case.

And crap, this isn't going the way Arthur hoped it would, the way this all would pan out if Arthur were starring in a bloody Richard Curtis movie. This is getting more than a fair bit uncomfortable instead. Arthur would give up -- consider Merlin a lost cause -- but, he resolves flicking a glance at Merlin's understanding face, Merlin's worth any manner of embarrassment.

“Hopefully,” Arthur says with renewed purpose, “that date will be with you...”

Merlin falls silent, mouth releasing no sound even as he gasps.

Arthur briefly wonders if Merlin's silence is bad. Never mind, he'll know in a few. In for a penny, in for a pound, he can finish off humiliating himself and have Merlin reject him like the proper hopeless case that Arthur is. But he's come so far now he can't back off. That would be the action of a coward and he does need to tell Merlin what he feels. It's only fair to the both of them. “I mean I'd love it if you wanted to go out with me and if you want to say no I'll understand. I'll stop coming. I'll never bother you again. Oh and I'll meet the spend today, but--”

Merlin's hands falls to his hips, a smile blooming on his lips, as he shakes his head this way and that, a chuckle escaping him. When he's done laughing under his breath, he says, “Yeah, of course I'd love to go on a date with you.” Slipping into an explanatory tone, Merlin continues. “Actually, I wanted to ask you out the other day but I thought there was no way someone as hot as you would accept. Plus, hitting on customers is against the rules so I thought I'd better not risk it, but yeah—”

“Yeah?” Arthur says, needing reassurance that he's heard Merlin right and sussed the meaning out of his barrage of words. 

“Yeah.” 

Arthur breaks into a smile

Merlin barely hides a wince right next. “Though you can't get out of today's session. It's like a contract. You could postpone it but--”

“I'll buy an outfit,” Arthur says, too excited about planning a date with Merlin to care about the expense he's to meet.

“Are you sure this isn't putting a dent into your bank account?” Merlin asks, brow furrowing.

“It isn't, don't worry.” Come January Arthur will watch out more, be more prudent as to his expenses, but it's not as if, on the whole, he can't afford to buy a couple new outfits. “Just get me something fit for a date.”

Merlin chuckles. “You know you don't need fancy duds to go on a date with me, right? I'm the opposite of this at home,” he says, pointing at his uniform. “I don't really love fashion. It's just a job and... you know, I like to be off it, on dates and such.”

“I've still got to buy something, right?”

“Eh, unfortunately.”

“So, as I said.” Arthur spreads his hands out. “Find me an outfit.”

“I guess that, handsome as you are, I can have fun with that.”

“Flatterer.”

Merlin seems to have a very precise idea of what garments to go for, what'll look good on Arthur, so he finds him an outfit quickly. In under five minutes he has Arthur queuing for the fitting rooms. “Go in there,” he says, when a stall is vacated by its previous occupant.

Arthur makes his way towards it. Once he's inside he hangs the garment Merlin's selected for him from the pegs on display.

Arthur has just pulled on the woollen jumper Merlin said would make his eyes pop, when someone knocks on the door of his changing room stall. “Arthur, may I,” Merlin asks politely, the lower part of his legs visible from underneath the barrier separating them.

With a huff, Arthur opens the door and pulls Merlin in, letting it fall shut behind them once Merlin's inside the tiny fitting room.

Standing there licking at his lips, Merlin's gaze roves over him. “You do look good.”

“Yeah?” Arthur says, invitation in his tone. After all, he's got Merlin in a confined space and Merlin looks very happy to be there.

“Yeah,” Merlin says, backing Arthur against the wall. “I shouldn't be doing this, but fuck it, if this isn't worth it.” He leans close, his hands on the wall either side of Arthur's head, his body warm, an aura of it he radiates like the glow of a camp-fire during a storm. Because he knows what's about to happen, a shiver chases down Arthur's spine. After all, it doesn't take a genius to predict that in a few seconds Merlin will...

All thought stops; Merlin's lips are soft and smooth against Arthur's mouth. They soften and curl around Arthur's, devolving in a series of short kisses that flood into a deeper one that finds Merlin flicking his tongue against the seam of Arthur's lips. Once he's given an in, Merlin's runs the tip of his tongue across the roof of Arthur's mouth.

Searching, possessive, Arthur slides his hands down Merlin's back, letting his fingers rest lightly on his lean hips. He responds to the kiss, catching Merlin's tongue in his mouth, teasing him with his own until he's lapping at Merlin's upper lip, licking under the fold of it.

Merlin starts and shakes, running his hands through Arthur's hair, pulling tufts of it upright, making Arthur's insides go to pure mush. In delight he presses harder against Merlin, letting their kiss get wild, Merlin's hips pressing against his, all bone and hardness.

It's so good, Arthur gets erect and so short of breath lances of fire lick at his lungs. He draws back, hitching his hips against Merlin's and finding the corresponding bulge in Merlin's trousers.

His eyes latch onto Merlin's face, which is ripe red. He, too, is breathing as fast as a horse. 

"I can't be doing this," Merlin tells him as his breathing decelerates. "If I get caught, I'll be getting the sack--" A pant breaks out of him. "And I can't afford that, but--"

Arthur nods, careful to appear wholly reasonable about this though internally he's ready to cry with frustration. He was so close. Merlin's as fantastic a kisser as Arthur had imagined and Arthur assumes he would have been good at other things too. Besides, his cock hurts. "Got it, yeah, on the job, rules." His own chest is still rising and falling embarrassingly fast, considering they gave in to nothing more than a snog.

"But I hope," Merlin says, swiping the tips of his fingers across Arthur's mouth, "that there's more of this--” He grinds his lower body against Arthur's “--in our future?"

"You can count on it," Arthur says, voice roughened by lust.

"Sunday night?" Merlin offers, chirpy, hopeful. "I'm free on Monday."

Arthur's actually got an early rise planned for Monday, but who needs sleep. “Yes,” he says, nodding his head and smoothing his voice to a semblance of normalcy so he doesn't sound completely wrecked by a kiss. “Sunday night is perfect.”

Before nipping out of the stall, Merlin stamps a soft kiss on his lips. “See you soon then, Arthur.”


	7. The Penguin Date

As he waits for Merlin in the yard of St James's church, Arthur rubs his hands together to instil some small manner of warmth into them. When a guy wrapped in a cumbersome though fluffy thermal jacket, thick scarf that could well be a cloak and a deerstalker sweeps past him, Arthur experiences a sense of profound envy he only suppresses thanks to the knowledge that soon he'll be in much better company than that waddling walrus can hope to be.

But when tiny snowflakes start descending, Arthur gives up his position and inches backwards, retreating under the striped red and white awning of one of the market stalls.

Since he's moving backwards and can't see where he's going, he bumps into a table displaying jewellery. “Sorry,” he tells the girl working at the stand. “I'm sorry.”

With a practiced economy of movement, she rearranges the knick-knacks he upended. “No worries,” she says, “this happens all the time.” 

“I'm still sorry,” Arthur says, pushing his fists in his pocket to avoid chilblains.

“Got stood up, did you?” the vendor's voice comes again.

This is the first time the thought's occurred to Arthur. The date with Merlin is set for half-past five. It's just a few minutes later than that. Merlin probably got caught up in something, that's all. His shoulders droop all the same. “No!” he says a little more forcefully than is polite. “I mean, he's just a little bit late.”

The girl smiles knowingly though a trace of pity comes to underline her expression. “We all think that,” she says, making Arthur want to throttle her for her sanctimonious, know-it-all tone." As if that wasn't enough she pauses for effect before rounding off her sentence with an, “At first. Hope's hard to kill.”

Though the action takes him away from the protection of the awning, Arthur pushes away from the stall table and stomps off. 

"Oi, I didn't mean anything by that," the girls calls out to him. "Just saying we're all in the same boat!"

That falls on deaf ears, mainly because Arthur refuses to listen anymore. 

To avoid running into the shoppers browsing the market, he leans against the church yard's open gate, the metal cold enough to make him wince upon contact. Once he's renegotiated his position so no bare part of him adheres to the cold surface, he settles in to watch buses trundle down Piccadilly and people jostle each other along the pavement. 

Snowflakes come down in soft eddies, like down plumes floating on the wind. Passers-by hurtle past, heads ducked, pace quick. They all seem to be heading for cover, not that that's unreasonable.

Even inside his pockets his fingers feel fat and useless. All he can do to regain feeling in his hands is curl them into fists he periodically loosens. To chase away the cold, Arthur stamps his feet. He's concentrating on the way the snow melts around his soles, when someone calls out his name. Arthur looks up. 

It's Merlin, trotting towards him at a brisk pace. A woollen hat sits low on his brow, covering Merlin's ears and skimming his eyes. He's wearing a puffy jacket that makes him move like a polar bear, jeans worn at the knee, and trainers so old Arthur Arthur can spy tears and all kinds of ancient stains marring the canvas fabric. 

“Sorry,” Merlin says as he lopes over, cheeks red and nose even more so. “I took the tube, but the first one was so full I couldn't squeeze in. So I waited for the next train and that one was as empty as you can wish but by then I was late.”

“No matter,” Arthur says, sticking his chin out of his collar so he can look like a normal person and not a burrowing badger. “Things get hectic around Christmas time.”

Also, take that shop vendor.

“Yeah,” Merlin agrees, smiling inanely at Arthur, “they do, don't they.” His smile falters when Arthur's teeth take to chattering. “Oh my God, you're freezing.”

“What are you talking about?” Arthur says, trying to contain the involuntary lock down of his muscles. He's not making Merlin think he's becoming an icicle and thus causing him to take a rain check. He's damned if he does. “Noooo, I'm not.”

Merlin grabs his face in his glove-covered hands. “You are though. Your nose is red and your lips are getting blueish. That's not normal unless you're auditioning for Dracula.” One hand still cradling Arthur's face, Merlin grabs Arthur's wrist with his free one. “Let's get you somewhere warm.”

Arthur leans into Merlin's touch both because it's Merlin and, romantic notions aside, because his gloves emanate heat. “I thought you would want to have a look at the market. And later we could have gone to the Christmas concert in St Martin in the Fields. I've got surprise tickets. I've planned it all.” 

“That was sweet,” Merlin says, not letting go of his face, his palms flat against the curves of Arthur's face. “But I don't want you to freeze off all your appendages. I might be interested in some of them.”

“So you're only safeguarding the success of your evil designs on me?”

“Maybe,” says Merlin, eyebrows dancing up and down though there's absolutely nothing evil about his overall expression. Arthur is rather prone to call it sweet.

“I might second this notion of yours,” Arthur says, humming under his breath with contentment. “For purely egotistic reasons.”

“Okay, then,” Merlin says, taking him by the hand and tugging him down the street, “Mr Egotist, let's go to Starbucks.”

With the weather the way it is getting a table proves impossible though they do manage to put in an order for a Chai Latte and a rather fancy peppermint mocha that comes in a red Styrofoam cup featuring a winking snowman. Since it's also impossible to find any standing place inside without getting elbowed in the ribs, they toddle outside again.

“Bus shelter,” says Merlin wrapping his fingers around his cup.

Arthur uses his as a water bottle, pressing the container against his chest. “Good idea.”

They've been perched on the bus stop bench pretending to be waiting for a bus for some ten minutes when Arthur says, “I bet this is not how you figured our date would be going.”

“I admit I thought there'd be less freezing off of my balls.”

Arthur's sides shake with quiet laughter. “I'm sorry for not having come up with a better plan than a visit to an open air market.”

“Well, it wasn't a bad idea,” Merlin says, drinking the last of his drink before ambling off to throwing both his and Arthur's empty away. He rejoins Arthur in the shelter. “Though I do think you should opt out of activities that involve spending good money for a while.”

Arthur finds himself objecting, if only because he originally liked his pet idea of spending an afternoon with Merlin browsing for stuff they both might like. “I thought you would like to have a look at the stalls do some of your own Christmas purchases.”

“Oh I already did most of mine,” Merlin says, shrugging. “As an HN employee I get discounts. It's nifty.”

“I thought you were one of those guys who'd handicraft everything,” Arthur says, scooting closer to Merlin both because it's freezing and because this is a date and he wishes for more body contact that what is involved with the both of them wrapped in a thousand sodding layers.

When he notices what Arthur's not so subtly doing Merlin bridges the remaining gap between them. “Don't have time for that,” Merlin says. “You know what my job's like.”

“Yep.” Merlin's on his feet all day, it would seem. “I've come to realise it's tougher than it looks.”

They both shiver. “Want to go see the concert?” Arthur isn't positive he can feel his toes any more, but he'll make the trek so as not to cut their date short. “At least we'd be inside.”

“I have a better idea,” Merlin says, resting the tip of that icicle of a nose of his against Arthur's cheek. “Why don't we go to yours?”

Arthur's bona fide chanting a chorus of 'yes, yes, fucking, yes,' in his mind that's perhaps best not shared with the rest of humanity. To be a hundred per cent honest, he can't think of a better outcome than this. He never proposed as much because he didn't want to assume Merlin would want to cover that base so fast but he can't say he doesn't want it. “I couldn't wish for better.”

Merlin stands. “Then what are we waiting for?”

“This,” Arthur says, his hands go inside Merlin's jacket; one curling around his waist, the other around the nape of his neck. Then he anchors their mouths together for a slow kiss that knocks some warmth right back into him. “Just this.”


	8. Chapter 8

"Here we are," Arthur says as he ushers Merlin into his home.

As Merlin takes in Arthur's flat, Arthur studies Merlin's expression. He doesn't seem to detect any signs of distaste. If anything, Merlin seems to be appreciative. Thankfully, Arthur's the tidy type; besides Merlin chose the right day to drop by since Arthur's cleaning lady came yesterday. All surfaces shine now.

The clutter of paperwork strewn across most tables isn't exactly what he'd have wanted to present Merlin with, however. Still, he can't do anything about that any more than he can stop his plants from drooping and showing how bad of a caretaker he is.

"If I'd known, I would have made the place more suitable for guests."

Grabbing him by the collar of his jacket, Merlin kisses him, Arthur's words snuffed out by the touch of his mouth, which is probably for the best. "This place is fantastic, really. Clean and neat and posh."

"Not posh," Arthur makes an effort to say even though his lips are mushed against Merlin's.

"Shut up and kiss me."

Merlin's lips are soft and fierce all at once, firm as they brush against his. They taste like peppermint coffee and snow. 

Their mouths open and their tongues touch. Arthur licks under Merlin's lip and feels his bottom teeth. 

In response Merlin's fingers curl around the hem of his collar, tugging him closer. 

As they kiss, their breathing gets erratic. The chill slowly ebbs from Arthur's joints and is slowly replaced by a warmth that works its way from the inside out. One kiss devolves into another, with short pauses for breath in between. They go from exploratory to deep and passionate in the span of a few minutes. Arthur relishes every second, every slide, every little noise exacted. When, winded, he pulls back, he finds he's backed Merlin up against the door. 

Merlin grins. "Perhaps," he pants, putting big pauses between his words, "we should move this somewhere more comfortable."

"I thought you would have liked it like this," Arthur says, miming a crude gesture by which he means 'fucking while standing' before his face burns up. "When we were in the fitting rooms..." He trails off, not finding words descriptive enough to encompass his meaning.

"Oh no, I like that," Merlin says, eyes slitting, crackles all around them. "But a draught's hitting my arse."

Arthur can't help but hiccup with laughter at that. He leans in to briefly kiss Merlin, then walks him to his big plush sofa. He brushes off the pillows, a gift from Morgana, and sets the heater going. Warm air emanating off it, he strips off his jacket and drapes it over the back of the piece of furniture. Sinking onto the three seater, he pats the spot next to him.

Merlin shrugs out of his own puffy jacket, hanging it from the back of a chair. With a grin he comes over and sits right where Arthur wants him to.

They stare at each other, divots forming in Merlin's cheeks, Arthur answering with an equally silly expression until he cranes forward to catch Merlin's lips in a kiss that is open and deep from the get go.

To pull Merlin up against him, he curls his fingers around Merlin's wrist, running his lips up the side of his neck and nosing under his jaw. Merlin throws his head back and palms his shoulder, giving a low moan.

"Shirt's in the way," Arthur murmurs against Merlin's skin.

"Then get it off me," Merlin says, breathless.

In one sleek move Arthur pulls Merlin's shirt and jumper off, dropping the items behind Merlin's shoulder. Taking a moment to appreciate Merlin's spare chest, broad shoulders and tapering hips makes Arthur light-headed. The space between his heart and ribcage feels suddenly ever so tight.

The half light flooding in through the living room curtains plays on the angles of Merlin's face, throwing some aspects of it in shadow. It's quite beautiful, Arthur finds. If he was a painter he would reproduce exactly this moment in time, with the darkness smudging the hollows of Merlin's face, while light enhances others.

Stunned by the effect Merlin's having on him, Arthur can't quite move a muscle to reach out and touch him. His limbs feel paralysed with a revelation that's been seeping through his consciousness in slow increments. He's in deep. Even looking at Merlin robs him of his breath and of his ability to act with any smoothness.

"Arthur," Merlin says, "you can move, you know."

Then Merlin pulls Arthur down and on top of him, angling Arthur's head to crush their lips together. As they kiss, Merlin blindly works the zip of Arthur's fleece hoodie down and then his shirt open.

Arthur pulls back and rolls the shirt off his shoulder. 

“You're the hottest customer I've ever had,” Merlin says, his mouth open against Arthur's throat.

Arthur stills his movements on top of Merlin. “What?” he says, bracing his arms either side of Merlin's head. “You've done this before?”

Merlin's eyes go round. “You mean sleep with a customer?” 

Arthur hangs his head, his muscles tightening.

Merlin’s hands fall to his sides, their warmth shocking a sigh out of him. “No, I don't make a habit of picking up the clientèle. It's just that... You're hot. Can't believe my luck, nothing more.”

Arthur purses his lips. “So you don't--” He leaves that be because Merlin's eyes narrow threateningly. “And you truly think I'm...” Arthur tips his head to the side to hint at what he means.

“You're a veritable hunk,” Merlin says, biting his lip, his tone laced both with humour and a measure of genuineness that makes Arthur smile.

“Really?” asks Arthur, not truly needing a confirmation anymore because he can now read it on Merlin's face. “And would you like me to kiss your body now?”

“I would protest if you didn't,” Merlin says, his wriggling under him a clear invitation. 

Arthur puts his mouth to Merlin's chest, roving kisses along his clavicles and licking at the hollow of his throat. Encouraged by Merlin's soft sounds, he flattens his tongue against Merlin's nipple, sucking it into his mouth till it pebbles. In his quest to learn Merlin's body in the way he might have secretly daydreamed about, he skims Merlin's ribs with his hands and lets his mouth follow. The muscles in Merlin's stomach flutter with each touch. 

Merlin groans and Arthur's gaze lands on the tenting in Merlin's jeans. Questioning, he looks up at Merlin and Merlin nods his head, giving Arthur leave to open the top button of his jeans and yank them down a notch. The move reveals Merlin's dark grey cotton boxers, tight around the fat bulge of him, wet with pre-come stains. 

For a second or two Arthur's brain deep-freezes at the notion he's excited Merlin, that he's made him hard with a few kisses and virtually no humping. Before Merlin can complain at his inaction though, Arthur mouths him through the fabric, sensing the heat of his flesh and finding the tip of Merlin's prick under the cotton layer. A plan of action formed, he sucks flesh and cotton into his mouth, leaving the latter drenched with his saliva.

"Fuck, Arthur, fuck," says Merlin, hips levering off the sofa. "You'll make me black out."

Arthur has to back off to say, all hoarse, "Nah, this is just the beginning."

“Demi-devil.”

Biting down on a chuckle, Arthur drags Merlin's underwear down and locks his lips around the head of Merlin's prick. The smell of Merlin deep in his nostrils, he finds the foreskin with his tongue and sucks hard, inserting his tongue under the soft skin, licking around his head, then pulling at the foreskin hood with his teeth.

Merlin breathes deeply and his hips move in little upward jolts as he prods more of himself in Arthur's mouth.

Arthur's lips slowly slide back and forth, dragging along Merlin's length in a teasing motion that makes Merlin's thigh muscles twitch and guttural noises escape from his chest. It thrills Arthur to feel Merlin lose control under his touch. 

It's with all that he has that he strokes Merlin with his mouth, while his tongue works at him in ways designed to make him let go. 

Hips arched off the sofa, Merlin pushes himself into him more and more steadily, releasing short sobs with each start of his hips. When he twists them, Arthur's finds himself fighting his gag reflex, his tongue flat against Merlin's length, tasting the taste of the pre-come Merlin leaks, his own chin up against Merlin's balls.

Short of breath, he feels his heartbeat ratchet up with the pull that tickles at the back of his throat. In an attempt to calm him, Arthur's palms Merlin's pubic bone, and Merlin lets up his thrusts, moving more shallowly. As he does so, the ridge of his cock-head rasps sharply against the roof of Arthur's mouth. With a sigh and a lock-down of his muscles, Merlin's splatters the back of Arthur's throat with his come and continues to spurt at the tip even as his cock slips from Arthur's lips. 

Arthur tries to lick it all off even as Merlin pulls away, a hand cupping his softening cock.

Sucking in a deep breath, Merlin sinks back on the seat. His face is a deep red; his face beaded with sweat, a drop of it meandering the side of it and down to the spot where his jaw starts tapering into his chin. 

Arthur wants to lick it off. He wishes he could cover Merlin's body with his kisses centimetre by centimetre. He dreams of running his mouth along the planes of Merlin's body and of cataloguing Merlin's reactions. But most of all right now he wants to do something to ease the ache between his legs. Merlin's irresistible to him. And it's not just because the sight of him with his cock out, body covered in sweat, and hair sticking up in spikes, is pornographic. It's that Arthur's heart lurching in his chest too, getting too big for him to do anything with. 

And, yeah, he's hard, and perhaps a bit biased right in this moment, but he wants to have Merlin like this forever, if Merlin will allow him.

His own heartbeat roaring in his ears, he grabs Merlin's flank and turns him, so he's lying belly down on the sofa. 

Merlin oomphs, laughs a raspy, tired laugh, and melts against the cushions.

"Can I?" Arthur says, palming the round globe of Merlin's arse, watching the curl of his back, the prominent notches in his spine, the fuzziness of baby hair at his nape. As a result of taking all of that in, his words come out choked and scarcely meaningful.

What he means must be clear though, for Merlin says, "Yeah, yes, I was waiting for that."

Shifting down, Arthur leans over, parting Merlin's cheeks with both hands. He touches his mouth to Merlin's hole, the tastes and smells sharper, headier. As Arthur glues his mouth to the furl of skin and kisses and sucks, Merlin goes from pliant to washboard tense. Again and again Arthur flicks his tongue over the soft rise of muscle, before he's pushing it inside, licking Merlin out. Merlin gives out rasps each time Arthur does. "One of these times," Arthur says, husky himself and short of breath, "I'm going to lick my come out of you."

"Christ, Arthur."

Arthur doesn't know whether he's sounding ridiculous or not; he just wants to voice the fantasy that's lodging inside his mind. "I want to make you wet like a girl and then suck it out of you."

Merlin gives the mattress a hump.

Since that reminds Arthur of how hard he is, every muscle inside him taut with the effort to rein it all in for a few more minutes, he goes back to work, pushing his tongue in and out of Merlin, circling it round and round the reddening lift of Merlin's skin, till Merlin's all wet and shiny with his spit and Arthur's jaw aches just a little bit. 

With a twist Merlin rocks back. "Arthur," he groans and the sound works its way deep inside Arthur, causing something in his groin to tighten even more than before. Righting himself till he's on his knees again rather than half-plastered over Merlin's lower body, he fishes a condom and lube out of his jeans pocket. With his fingers he pushes the lube inside Merlin, twisting and scissoring them until Merlin can take the girth of him. 

"Enough, enough, please," Merlin pleads, his head buried in his arms, his neck corded with strain and tinted crimson. 

Arthur wants to think that it's lust that's made him flush so because he's in the same boat. Need lodges deep in his bones and he has this wish for Merlin to want him that comes as natural to him as desiring Merlin himself.

A few more moments, he tells himself, and part of his hunger will be satisfied. The rest of it, the desire that he knows goes beyond the physical will probably stay. He doesn't want to be rid of that facet of his passion though. He doesn't want to be cured of his need for Merlin.

With a snap, Arthur pops his jeans open and pulls out his dick. With hands that are none too steady he unfurls the condom and rolls it on. Taking a deep breath that makes him drunk with oxygen, he smears his cock with lube. Inching forward on his knees, he blankets Merlin's back with his body, feeling waves off heat radiating off of him. 

"Ready?" he asks, guiding himself with his hand until his length his nestled between Merlin's cheeks, even that little bit of friction sending his breathing haywire and the knots in his stomach twisting.

"Yes," Merlin says, short clipped. “Come on, Arthur, please.”

As Arthur nudges inside him, tightness gripping him like a glove, Merlin bites his arm.

"Hey," Arthur says, pushing forward on his knees so that more of his length slips inside, his front covering Merlin's back until he's level with Merlin, his thighs either side of his lower back, his belly grazing Merlin's skin, “leave that." His slips forward a little and from this position he can take Merlin's earlobe in his mouth and murmur nonsense endearments.

"Burns," Merlin tells him.

Trembling, Arthur holds himself still, breathing in and out against the back of Merlin's neck, where perspiration beads thick. "I can wait," he grits out, holding his eyes closed against the burst of heat that unfolds in his belly, that surrounds his cock.

"Count reindeer," Merlin says on a strained, low and guttural chuckle.

Scattering kissed across Merlin's nape, Arthur says, "Reindeer? It makes no sense and I haven't fucked your brains out yet. What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'd--" Merlin says, twisting his head to catch him in a kiss that's nothing but his tongue slipping shallowly into Arthur's mouth. "I'd have said sheep, but it's nearly Christmas."

"Idiot," Arthur says, a scattering of laughter taking him by surprise and causing him to slide forward, deeper into Merlin, where it's snug and hot and so brilliant Arthur can see colour explode behind eyelids that have slipped close. "Sorry," he says, voice as spoilt as if he'd smoked all his life long.

"No, it's good," Merlin says, pushing back so that Arthur's all the way in. "You can, you know. Fuck me, that is."

On the brink as he is, Arthur doesn't need to be told twice. He moves, flexing his back so he's giving Merlin deep long strokes that hopefully don't leave him empty for long. The truth is Arthur wants to push in and in, to never lose the connection. 

With one hand on Merlin's thigh that he uses to give himself leverage, Arthur rocks in and out of Merlin, starting slow, feeling the shock of warmth and tightness that manages to liquefy his guts and send his heart skittering out of his chest every time he homes in.

Head ducked, Merlin gains his knees and gives out long moans that vibrate out his ribcage. Arthur knows because he's got one arm spanning his waist. Moved by Merlin's response, he scatters kisses onto Merlin's nape. “Merlin,” he says though he does it so low he doubts Merlin can make out just how desperate his invocation is. As he pumps faster, Merlin grinding back, he nips at the top bump of his spine. 

“Go on, like this, just like this,” Merlin says, instructing him on how to fuck him in as raw a voice as Arthur's ever heard.

"Christ, Merlin," Arthur breathes out, sinking onto his haunches and lifting Merlin flush into his lap, fucking up into him in small increments that stifle his breath and make his cock throb into a pitch that's like a deep, deep ache. Catching his mouth in a sideways kiss, Merlin bears down on him, his weight and the shock of friction like a punch in the gut, of the good kind. As the kiss roughens, Arthur bucks upwards a few more times, orgasm stealing through him like a thief in the night, breaking the tight hold of his muscles on his body and driving his senses into a confusion he can only call bloody blinding pleasure. With the last spurts of his come, Arthur's hips work in the final few thrusts. These seem to have driven Merlin to hardness again. With his hand wrapped around his cock, Arthur milks him of a semi dry orgasm.

Once they're both spent, they crumple one on top of the other down the length of Arthur's sofa. They're a pretzel of limbs, some of which Arthur isn't sure he recognises as his own. It's nice though, warm and right and everything Arthur could have wished for. So tired he feels like he will never find the stamina to ever be active again, Arthur mumbles, “Wake me up in time for New Year.”


	9. Food is love.

Arthur wakes because the sun teases him, but that is not the only reason why he does. It's also because the consciousness of something he must do haunts him. 

When he blinks it's to see the room washed in sunlight, white tremulous winter rays lighting his flat clean. A bright shaft bathes Merlin, who's sprawled on the sofa next to him, naked as the day he was born. He looks quite lovely and much more ethereal than he did the night before. But then with all they did the night before, there was little room to safely employ that adjective or to apply it to either of the two of them.

As a result of the night's activities, Arthur purrs with the contentment that fills his bones.

All that glitters is not gold though; something is literally cramping his style and making this perfect of mornings a little bit less than dreamlike.

Because of their relative positions, with Merlin's lower body partially sprawled on top of his, Arthur's leg has gone numb. To accommodate Merlin, Arthur has also ended up sleeping curled up like a comma around him so that now he has a crippling crick in the neck.

In the end, pain in the neck or no, he ends up propping his head on his hand and smiling down at Merlin. Until, that is he remembers he needs to be at work in fifty minutes.

In a mess of caterwauling limbs, he falls off the sofa, but that doesn't wash the smile off his face. He wears it in the shower and as he dresses. He has the same silly expression on while he hurries over his breakfast. 

He's actually eating the last bit of his sponge cake when he realises that Merlin will wake up to a vacated flat and no food. 

That isn't the message he wants to give. An idea occurring to him, he pokes his head in the fridge and scans its contents. There's nothing much. Normally he lunches out every day. For dinner he either orders take-away or buys a few last minute groceries before popping back home. They generally serve for immediate consumption.

So the choice now is pretty limited. Still, Arthur is nothing but resourceful. A jar of jam still survives untouched, sitting on the upper shelf of his fridge next to an expired tub of yoghurt. He picks the jar up, together with a fairly fresh mushroom he's got stashed in the crisper drawer, and proceeds to whip up a quick breakfast of sorts. He spreads the jam on top of some biscuits Morgana brought back from her holiday in Tuscany and roasts the mushrooms halves. With the time he has at his disposal there's nothing much he can do, but he does his best to blend the two clashing savours together. When he's done with the preparation he takes a second plate from the cupboard and uses it to cover the first one, so that so protected the food will stay fresh. Against the plate pyramid he props up a note.

 

_Merlin, here's breakfast, or the closest approximation thereof I could make._

_Sorry I couldn't wait 4 you to wake up but I need to get myself to work. Irrespective of my absence, please stay as long as you like. There are DVDs in the sideboard in the hallway and there's enough coffee in the boiler pot to last you half a day, unless you've got a secret coffee addiction I don't know of._

_Have a lovely free day,_

_Arthur._

__

Making as little noise as possible, he picks up his briefcase and leaves the flat.

When he makes it back that night he finds the place as deserted as it usually is. Merlin has tidied up tough. The cushions are back on the sofa, Merlin's clothes are no longer scattered around all over the floor, and the dishes Arthur left on the kitchen table are gone. Not a crumb spoils its surface either. Arthur's shoulders sag.

They go up again when he explores his kitchen better. 

A plate sits on the draining board. It's covered in cellophane. Under the transparent layer of plastic there's a mound of fried rice, sweet corn and greens. A note written in red marker says,

 

_In exchange for my breakfast, you get dinner. I hope you don't mind I used your pots and pans to 'cook'. BTW, this is really the best I can do. I cleaned up everything when I was done, I swear. If I'd managed this as a teen my mum would've been so proud. She'd have cried, I tell you. Nothing's actually fresh. I just bought the ingredients frozen from Tesco. What I didn't use is in your freezer._

_I can make up for the low quality by inviting you out to dinner, a proper one._

_Let me know what you think,_

_Love, Merlin._

_PS: Working your dishwasher is like launching the Space Shuttle._

__

Arthur taps the note against his chin, the corner of his lips curling upwards in a rather inane fashion.


	10. Chapter 10

Arthur takes Merlin up on the invitation. If Merlin hadn't dropped it in his note, he would probably have had to resort to some unlikely scenario to get where Merlin landed them with a few casual words.

In a way he can scarcely believe his luck and the ease of the process. He's always had to go through quite a few pains to procure his fist date with Merlin. But apparently all's well that ends well.

Though Arthur insists that Merlin should choose the venue, it Arthur who's made to make the final decision. “Provided you don't choose somewhere expensive,” Merlin says, still mindful of Arthur's finances after Arthur's Christmas splurging sprees.

To keep things simple and down to earth Arthur meets up with Merlin at the pub close to work. Normally he'd have avoided the place both because he's too familiar with it and because people here know him and will probably gossip about him once they see him with Merlin.

But they do good fish burgers and their chips are as thick as staves. That's a plus that cannot be discounted when it comes to locale choice. So Arthur lets himself go for it. As it turns out, Merlin loves the place. He declares it, “Homey grunge,” and says he's satisfied. “Really,” he adds as he sinks into a booth that creaks under his weight, “this place feels authentic, like the real pub deal. I'm in half a mind to call for 'mine host'.” 

Arthur doesn't know what he's pitching this authenticity against but is so content with the outcome he's not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

When Arthur comes back from the bar with their orders, Merlin claims both his and Arthur's chips for himself. Arthur doesn't mind because Merlin's toothy grins makes up for all amounts of stolen food. Besides he's got nuggets to eat and a side of broccoli, that while not exactly tasteful to him, are at least healthy. As he eats, Merlin licks the salt off the tips of his fingers, making Arthur drop his food and want to suck them into his mouth. 

Overall, Merlin also smiles a lot and talks and talks and there's not a moment's pause to their conversation. Arthur likes it that way even if more often than not his response is silly peals of laughter or the kind of banter that makes no sense even to himself. It's easy. It doesn't take much, no thinking beyond the wishing for the moment to stretch and stretch. The filler is like pleasant music nourishing the pauses between their getting to know each other. And even then it's filler of the kind Arthur notes down with a view to remember. New facets of Merlin emerge that he definitely doesn't want to forget. 

It's all in the little things. For example, when he finds a subject funny, Merlin snorts and snort until laughter rings out of him like a shot. And when he finds something sweet or pleasing, Merlin's eyes soften into wide eyed candour that makes Arthur feel like all his internal organs have been squeezed and he can do nothing more than gasp for air. In a nice way, in that lovely breathless way that makes you thrill for it, for feeling like this.

They've been in the pub for nearly two hours when Merlin swears he's so full, he'll start to wobble like a Penguin if he tries to make it home now. So to shake off the food torpor they have a game of darts and then one of pool. It's ten by the time they leave the premises and take a walk that takes them down Poultry and up to Bank Junction, facing the column-streaked façade of Mansion House. 

“I'd love to wonder around with you some more, but I'm working tomorrow,” Merlin says, tapping the face of his watch.

Arthur buries his fingers in the pockets of Merlin's coat. “I'll be letting you go,” he says, tipping his head to the side, “if you give me a kiss.”

“A kiss, eh?” Merlin says, snuggling up to him. “Is that what's going to take?”

“Yes.” Arthur places his feet outside of Merlin's, bracketing them. “And another date.”

“You want another?”

“Yes, or I'm not letting you go.”

Merlin's breath is warm and fresh as his lips finally pull up against his. Arthur can feel him part them and move his mouth around his. Tingling warmth blooms in his stomach for as long as the kiss lasts. When it's over, Merlin says, “Well, how about seeing each other on the day after tomorrow?”

“Yes," Arthur hastens to say, then mellower he smooths it out with a, "Right, see you then.”

Despite the goodbye they're still locked in one another's arms.

It's a man dressed as Santa bumping into them that causes Arthur to finally release Merlin. As Santa cusses them out, Merlin sniggers. “That was a sign from above telling me I'd better get home.”

“Probably,” Arthur agrees. “Otherwise it's just weird.”

Their second date doesn't take place, not in a conventional form anyway. As agreed, Merlin comes pick him up. Arthur buzzes him into his flat and Merlin kisses him, tasting like almond and cinnamon combined and Arthur feels the urge to turn his greeting peck into an open mouthed snog.

Merlin answers in kind, so Arthur backs him up against his bedroom door and they proceed to have the wall sex Merlin's been craving since their fitting room grope. Round two does take place in the bedroom although they manage to wreck it, the both of them rolling off the bed and ending up in a tangle of limbs and duvet on the floor.

“Ow,” Merlin laughs, his neck thrown back as the sound tinkles out of him, the motion highlighting tendons. “My tail-bone. It hurts.”

Arthur sucks kisses on Merlin's throat, as he continues to thrust into Merlin, their relocation notwithstanding. “That's because you have zero padding to it.”

“Are you saying my arse is scrawny?”

“Are--” Arthur's hips work forwards and he releases mid-delivery. “Are you saying mine's fat?” he sighs out.

“I'm saying you're being lazy,” Merlin tells him in much deeper tones, fondling his cock obscenely. “You should--" A bitten lip. "Do something about it. Make me come, Arthur.”

Arthur bats Merlin's hands away and proceeds to achieve just that result.

When they're done, Arthur covers them with one corner of the duvet and then crashes asleep with a huge grin on his face he's not to be blamed for.

He wakes with the same expression on his face and is totally baffled to find that Merlin's not sharing his contentment. He looks sad and dejected. His shoulders drop and the corners of his mouth droop.

Arthur goes and gets his boxers. When he returns from his retrieval mission, Merlin's lower lip is sticking out. Arthur pats his belly and clears his throat. Merlin's expression doesn't change. Arthur turns around and grabs the top of his pyjamas. By the time he's warm and into a layer of fleece, Merlin has huffed and his eyes have gone a bit misty.

The sight puts a crack in Arthur's heart. He can't wait a moment longer to make sure Merlin's fine. “Hey, what's got into you?” Arthur asks as he sinks on top of the covers and next to Merlin. “Was it anything I said or did?

“No, nothing you did.” Merlin says, tucking his legs under the covers. “It's absolutely nothing.

Arthur touches his shoulder to Merlin's. “Something's bugging you though, I can see that.”

“Nothing is.”

“Annoying you then, making you sad?” Arthur guesses. “You're in a bit of a mood compared to yesterday.”

“Yesterday I was on top of the world,” Merlin says, turning on his side and wrapping an arm around Arthur's middle. "It doesn't compare."

“And today?”

“And today...” Merlin tangles their legs together. “It's silly and embarrassing.”

“More than rushing to the bathroom, cock out and dangling, for a midnight piss?”

Merlin laughs. “Yes, way more. You know, calls of nature justify everything... _This_ is just ridiculous.”

Arthur tickles Merlin's sides, finding spots that make him huff out. “You can tell me, you know.”

“It's my mum,” Merlin says, burying his nose in Arthur's armpit. “I was supposed to go back home for Christmas, making rounds visiting relatives, see my old mates from school, the works.”

“But,” Arthur asks, guessing there's an impediment to Merlin's plans.

“But—” Merlin's words come out garbled. “But she's going on a cruise with Mr Taliesin.”

“Oh so your plan fell through.”

“Yeah,” Merlin says, sounding disappointed even though his words are mashed together. “No more butter tarts, no more early Peter Jackson films marathon with Will. No more Ealdor sixth form holiday reunion. It's sad.”

“So what are you doing this Christmas now that that plan's gone out of the window?” Arthur asks, planting his chin on the top of Merlin's head, his finger's mapping Merlin's bare skin.

“I suppose I'll be home watching telly?” Merlin says. “If Gwaine's around I might persuade him to make it to our local's Christmas Quiz Night.”

“Quiz Night, Merlin?” Arthur chuckles. “You're not doing that; you're coming with me to Leon's.”

“But wouldn't your friend mind?” Merlin lifts his head, trying to meet Arthur's gaze. “I'd be a stranger at his table... on a holiday.”

“Leon loves people,” Arthur says, repositioning himself around Merlin. “He loves having them around to take the mickey out of them and make an arse of himself. Otherwise he gets sad, positively morose, more than Inspector Morse at his broodiest. Believe me, you should come. It's going to be a riot.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Well, then, I'll be looking forward to this new plan of yours.”


	11. The Denouement

Before he closes the lid on it, Arthur has a last look at his boot. He's managed to stack its entire width with presents. There's the hamper Merlin helped him choose, Arthur's personal gifts to Leon that also come from Harvey Nichols, a gift idea for Mab, and Merlin's own added offerings for the hosts.

“It's looks like Santa's sleigh,” Merlin says, as he bumps his hip with his. “So my present to you is fitting, I think.” He dangles a Santa-shaped mirror accessory before Arthur's face. 

Arthur picks it up by its cord and studies Santa's curly white beard, its smiling felt eyes, the red splashes on its cheeks and the puffy white buttons that decorate its red tunic. “Aww, you warm the cockles of my heart.”

“Shut up and say thank you for your beautiful present, Merlin,” Merlin says, putting the Santa accessory in his pocket so it's facing Arthur from its cradle, cheery seasonal grin firmly in place on its mug.

To the sound of Merlin's laughter, Arthur grabs Merlin by the sides and manhandles him into his arms. “Thank you,” he says, fitting their lips together for a slow slide. “My present was fantastic.”

“Not as fantastic as me though.”

“No,” Arthur concedes though he does it while chuckling. “I definitely prefer your legs to Mini Santa's stumpy ones.”

“Pervert.”

Arthur would have shown Merlin exactly what kind of pervert he is if his phone hadn't rung. As it is, he barks a curt, "Yes," as he walks away from Merlin. 

“Save me,” Morgana says, in a voice for once free of her usually smugly superior tones. 

Arthur rattles out a sigh Morgana's sure to hear. “Has Christmas with Father curbed the joy out of you?”

“Katrina wants me to cook.”

“How earth-shattering.”

“That's very sexist of her,” Morgana says, sounding ready to argue her point, which in fact she does. “Uncle Agravaine is being allowed to watch the Strictly Christmas special.”

“Morgana,” Arthur says squeezing his nose right at the top. “There's nothing I can do for you.”

“Yes, there is. Come and pick me up.”

“I'm going to Leon's.” When Arthur phoned Leon to tell him about Merlin coming over, Leon had said 'you can bring an entire platoon with you' before grilling him about how Arthur had met this new bloke he'd never heard of before. Going by that, Leon would probably be happy to have Morgana too, but it's Arthur who doesn't want Morgana there. She can be very annoying when she puts her mind to it. Like now. “So I don't see how I can take yo--”

“If you don't come pick me up immediately I'll tell father you fucked his PA when you were eighteen.”

Arthur remembers that crush; he remembers it with all the embarrassment you can summon for such a seminal experience after a ten year span. He doesn't want to explain that one to anybody either. “Morgana— ” he says, and it's certainly half a threat.

“I also have nudes of you I can plaster all over my Facebook, tag Arthur Pendragon and make searchable.”

“How the hell did you get nudes of me?” Arthur shrieks. Whirling around, he finds Merlin cocking his head curiously at him.

“I used your computer when I was at yours last time, remember?”

“Okay, okay,” Arthur says, making placating gestures at the ether. “I'll pick you up in a moment but I won't park by the house because I don't want Father to see me.”

“Good, be here in twenty,” Morgana orders him as if he can actually do something to control Christmas Eve traffic. “I'll slip out when no one's looking.”

To end the call, Arthur presses the red button with more force than necessary. “We're detouring,” he tells Merlin curtly.

“Why, what happened?” Merlin asks, following Arthur as he lopes to the car.

“Morgana's coming too.”

“That's your sister, right?” Merlin asks, as he settles into the passenger seat.

“Yes.” Arthur turns the key in the ignition with a snap. It's a miracle it doesn't break. “Though at the moment let's just call her Enemy X.”

Merlin doesn't laugh nor poke fun at him for being dramatic. He just hangs his Santa from the rear-view mirror and pushes at it so it ludicrously dances around in circles.

Arthur laughs.

When Morgana gets in the car the first thing she says is directed at Merlin. “Hello, pretty.”

Merlin goes red at Morgana's sultry tone. “Hi, I'm Merlin.”

“Morgana,” Morgana informs Merlin, then she grabs back of Arthur's seat and leans close as though she means to whisper something in his ear. She isn't doing anything of the sort when she says, loud and clear, “Well done, Arthur.” She basically punches his shoulder so hard he'll bruise. “I bet he's a sweet fuck.”

“Oi,” Arthur says, his protest louder than the engine's rumble as the car starts again. “TMI, Morgana.”

Merlin sees fit to answer Morgana and tell her something a bit more suggestive. “I wouldn't say 'sweet' but I'd say 'good'.”

That shuts Morgana up -- hopefully she's not intent on picturing him and Merlin in flagrante – for at least five minutes.

Unfortunately, by the time they're halfway over to Richmond, and thus to Leon's, she's started nattering again. Nor does she cease when they make it to Leon's. Once they get there in fact, she snarks over the greetings and is generally a sarcastic nuisance. That though that doesn't faze Leon in the least and for some reason neither does it discountenance Mab. She, for some unfathomable reason, appears to like Morgana. A friendly spark sizzles between them and they fall to chatting. It's standard new acquaintance tattle but it flows freely. Mab even succeeds in enticing Morgana into the kitchen and sets her to work by exhorting her to put decorations on her gingerbread biscuits. 

Merlin and Arthur help as well. Merlin's additions are however the most artistic. He does two sets: his gingerbread men get wizard hats made of sugar and big Fran Joseph moustaches. The second version is much more porno-oriented and has Mab in stitches while Morgana's comments about the positions they can arrange Merlin's newly decorated gingerbread men in have Leon blushing. “What, that set is particularly priapic.” 

“Perhaps,” Morgana says, tapping her chin. “I wish real life examples were more like Merlin's 'art'. 

“As long as we remember not to give this to my seven year old niece,” Leon says, biting the head off one of them.

Mab kisses Leon on the nose and says, “Don't worry, we're saving all of the x-rated ones for ourselves.”

Once everything is ready, re-heated, seasoned and properly decorated, they eat their tasty dinner before the fireplace Leon built. 

“Don't let him fool you,” Mab says, pointing her fork at the construction, “he had major help from the workers who redid this place and downloaded the design from the net.”

Leon pouts over a Bruxelles spout. “It wasn't identical. I changed the ratios and adapted it to our living room.”

“Yes, dear.” Mab blows Leon a kiss.

“Men,” Morgana says, sounding long suffering and considering how many SOs she's picked up, chewed off, and discarded over the years, she may have reason to say that. Arthur doesn't want to investigate so as not to have his sanity shattered.

“Well, actually,” Merlin says, “it's not too bad at all. It's a nice cosy fireplace. Besides, I don't think I could have anything architecturally altered without bringing the house down on my ears.”

“This means we can rule out you being an architect,” Morgana says, changing the conversation abruptly as she goes fishing for information on Merlin. “So how did you meet my brother?”

“That is a fantastically apt question,” Leon pitches in, because, of course, the traitor would try to use that as an in to probe.

Considering the shower of presents now sitting under Leon's tree Arthur doesn't want his friends – and Morgana – to figure out what went down. He loves them – okay, his love for Morgana comes with such qualifications as 'when she behaves' – and the presents really are a gesture that comes from the bottom of his heart. The quantity of them is another matter entirely. That was due to something else.

Arthur spears a baby carrot.

“I work for Harvey Nichols,” says Merlin, eating some of his own carrots. “As a shop assistant.”

“How interesting,” says Morgana, scanning the presents at the foot of the tree. “What department?”

Arthur makes round eyes at Merlin in the hopes he'll catch his meaning, which is, 'when push comes to shove, stay mum'.

Looking from Arthur, to Morgana, to Leon, Merlin sucks on his tines. “All of them,” he says in a quick and garbled delivery. “Can anyone pass me the peas?”

“Here,” says Mab, handing him a big bowl of them.

“They're very good,” Merlin says after a taste. “What recipe is this?”

The subject shifts and Arthur sighs a sigh of relief.

It's only around midnight that it surfaces again. Leon and Mab have exchanged their reciprocal gifts. Leon has given Arthur his, a new football. “So we can have a few matches of our own, which I'll win because I'm the best.” And it's now Arthur's turn to give out his presents. He gives Mab and Leon the hamper first.

“Wow,” says Leon, hands buried deep in the wicker basket. “There's everything in here. Oh look, there's a risotto kit. I adore risotto.”

Mab hugs Leon from the side, squeezing on his belly and the tiny amount of flab there. “I'm sure you do, love.”

They all laugh. While they others are still deep in the grip of laughter, Arthur hands Morgana her gifts. Her reactions range from disappointment when she unveils the gym outfit to shouts of giddy pleasure, which she emits upon seeing the knit and scarf. “Oh my god this is brilliant, Arthur. So soft, so gorgeous. I'll go preen in the mirror.”

When she returns from the hallway where a whole length mirror hangs, she's even more enthusiastic. “I look so glam,” she says, sitting down next to Leon while still wearing her presents. “I'm fabulous. Thanks dear.” 

She kisses Arthur's cheeks; Arthur blushes and stammers, “Of course, I had to give my old hag of a sister something.”

Leon is unwrapping his presents when Morgana's nose fills with wrinkles. “Wait a moment,” she says, snatching Leon's present away from him, “let me see the label.”

“Wait, why, what!” Leon asks, flapping his hands to get his present back even though it's in Morgana's clutches now.

“It says Harvey Nichols,” Morgana says, tugging on the label and twisting it so that everybody in the room can see it. “Just like my stuff.”

“So?” Leon says, just as Arthur slowly backs away from the group. In a way he blesses Leon's thickness when it comes to cottoning on,

“So,” Morgana says, checking the provenance of all presents and then proceeding to explain for those who, like Leon, haven't got it. “My brother here made us all these gifts so he could get laid.” She arches an eyebrow at Merlin, then glares at Arthur. 

“Arthur, you horn dog, go you,” Leon exclaims, his cheeks lifting with a suggestive smile.

“That's a new tactic,” Mab says, looking at Arthur and Merlin contemplatively.

“Hey, you could be a little nicer about getting those gifts,” Merlin tells Morgana while pointing at the spread of them. There are so many the carpet at the foot of the tree is covered in boxes. “He he got them from our store, true, and it's also true to say that Arthur and I bonded over his shopping--” Merlin searches the room to catch Arthur's eyes. Arthur can't help but smile Merlin's way. “But you're a pretty lucky sister. He could have gone for an 80p present from our 'Sorry, I Spent It On Myself'' collection while he splurged on items for, guess what, himself. Instead he chose to give you things he hoped you would like. I call that a great gesture. I wish I had a brother like that!”

While Arthur's heart breaks in a thousand little pieces and his love for Merlin escalates by a billion points, Morgana ducks her head. “You're right, Merlin.” She hunches in under her new scarf, twisting its loops with febrile hands. “Sometimes we can't see what's right in front of us." She attempts to catch Arthur's eyes. “Arthur, you've been lovely, thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

Morgana tilts her head at the tree. “Yours is in that envelope.”

Arthur marches up to the tree and picks up the bright red envelope someone addressed to him in black marker. When he opens it, a cardboard square drops out. “A gift certificate?”

Morgana shrugs, her ponytail bouncing off her shoulders. “I wanted to repay you with the same coin as last year.”

“Well, at least it's for a spa,” Arthur says, wondering whether he can use the certificate to get himself and Merlin a nice weekend off.

“So we're all happy?” Morgana asks, smiling tentatively and more sweetly than is her wont.

“Yes,” Arthur says, willing to bury the hatchet. It's Christmas after all. Arthur's gaze lands on Merlin and his contented moue. "Yeah.”

“Let's toast to that!” says Leon, clapping his hands together by way of exhortation.

“Right!” his wife says, picking up a champagne bottle from the sideboard, which Leon dutifully opens. “Let's drink to love and family and happy Christmases.”

Bottle in hand, Leon does the rounds, pouring sparkling champagne in each of them. Once Leon has filled all their glasses, they raise them and say, “Merry Christmas!”


	12. The Epilogue

It's well into the night and they're all mildly buzzed from the alcohol they've imbibed. Morgana's trying on her presents again and Leon is softly snoring on the settee, his head thrown back, his mouth open. Mab has just put on a quiet song that's all gentle smoky basses and is swaying to it, her glass in her hand.

Merlin wraps hot fingers around Arthur's wrist. “Come out into the garden with me.”

It's neither raining nor snowing outside and the wind, though it's soughing in the trees and releasing a constant murmur, isn't high. “All right, okay. I do want you to myself for a minute or two.”

On their way out they grab their coats from the hallway rack and slip out of the door. They stomp on the grass, cut meticulously short, their footfall cushioned by the soft blades of greenery. They look grey in dead of night, as if colour has seeped from them.

They stop by a rose bush, frozen still and covered in brine. 

“You know,” Merlin starts, voice low as if he's loath to break the stillness of the hour, “a few weeks ago I didn't imagine I would be spending Christmas this way.”

“We didn't know each other then.” Arthur sidles from side to side. “Are you disappointed?”

“No.” A cloud of vapour mushrooms upwards as Merlin speaks. “I think that's beautiful. I mean the beautiful thing about life. That sometimes the unexpected surprises you and the gift you get is something wonderful.”

“Oh,” says Arthur, releasing the muscles he had braced in expectation of a rejection. “That's... That's good.”

“I suppose,” Merlin says, his mouth tilting upwards at the corners as he roots in his pocket. “And I also wanted to use this opportunity to give you this.”

A grey jewellery pouch lands in Arthur's hand. “What's this?” 

“You know how I have discounts at HN, right?” Merlin says, as Arthur undoes the flaps holding the pouch closed. “So I thought I can't give Arthur any of that. It's not personal. It would be like... bringing the work home so I...”

A stopwatch rolls into Arthur's palm. It's got a round case and a white face, the numbers stylised in a quaint way. “It's an antique,” Arthur breathes out, swiping his thumb along the cold smooth surface of the glass.

“Not really, no,” Merlin says, looking down at the stopwatch sitting in Arthur's palm. “It's not that ancient though it is old. It was my dad's. He left it behind with most of his things when he--” Merlin licks his lips. “Yeah, and it was just sitting there and didn't work anymore so I had it fixed. I hope you don't mind it's used.”

Arthur tightens his fist around Merlin's present. “I can't accept this, Merlin.”

Merlin's forehead knits. “Why!” he says, before hanging his head and mumbling, “Of course. It was a stupid idea anyway.”

Merlin makes to take his gift back but Arthur holds on to it for a while longer. “It's too personal.”

“It's exactly personal enough,” Merlin mutters, directing his speech at the ground.

“I--” Arthur tries to say, Merlin stopping him by closing his fist around Arthur's.

“You mean something to me,” Merlin says, his fingers brushing against the back of Arthur's hand as he tries to get a hold of the stopwatch. “And I need to move on from him, so I thought I'd give it to someone who was important to me, rather than... I don't even know.”

Arthur understands perfectly now though. “I think I do and in that case...” He dives for Merlin's lips, causing them to unfurl against his while he opens Merlin's hand and pries the stopwatch out it. “I'll take the present.”

"Really?" Merlin asks joyfully before bridging the distance between them. His tongue teases Arthur's between little nibbles on his lips. Touch follows touch until the kiss firms and deepens, Arthur finally catching Merlin's tongue with his own, tip to tip. sliding, curling around it in a wet game of tag.

When their breath shortens, Merlin lowers his hands to his chest and pushes him away. Panting, he asks, “Why, though? A moment ago you didn't want to.”

“Because I may moderately love you,” Arthur says, not caring that it's too early to say that, just needing to put that out.

“You moderately love me?” Merlin's dimples deepen in his cheeks.

“Yeah,” Arthur says, slipping his own present to Merlin in his pocket when Merlin's busy reading his eyes. Arthur hopes he'll find it tomorrow when he slips his coat on again. “I do.”

“In which case,” Merlin says, lips stretching outwards and creating a multitude of laugh lines, “I may moderately do too.”

 

The End.

 

“But not too much, mind you," Merlin adds once he's kissed the daylights out of Arthur.

“Would never dare think so.”

“Good, now kiss me again, my lips are feeling the cold.”

 

FADE TO BLACK.

**Author's Note:**

> The Harvey Nichols 'I spent it on myself collection' really exists and it consists of a very cheap series of items you can buy for your dear ones. The idea is you're splurging on yourself...


End file.
